Forgive, Not Forget
by TwoBitesOfTheApple
Summary: It was only for the day. Only for Joel, he would go back for a few hours - and he would avoid Cheryl, and Steven, and Walker; like he had done the past three years. And at the end of they day, Brendan would go back to Dublin. It would be fine. Right? But things in Hollyoaks are rarely that simple...
1. Chapter 1

The letter was innocent enough, when it arrived. A simple, traditional "You are invited to the wedding of Joel Fox and Theresa McQueen" on card, in typed envelopes that smelt faintly of roses; Ste would bet that was Theresa's touch.

"The invitation arrived!" He called back through the flat, in the direction to his bed, where his boyfriend was sprawled out like he owned it and grinning lazily in the morning sun.

"So?" Kyle muttered, heaving himself to his feet and staggering a couple of steps to plant a wet kiss on the side of Ste's neck.

Ste shook him off: his attention was focused on the calendar opposite him and the paper in his hand, "Yeah, we're free on those dates." He commented, wiping his neck discreetly.

Kyle raised a dark eyebrow, "What else is new?"

Ste smirked – his boyfriend, as ever, raised a valid point: it had been a while since they had done something _exciting_.

"Why don't we take a holiday?" Ste suggested, wrapping his arms around Kyle's waist lovingly, smiling up into his brown eyes. Kyle grinned back in silent agreement.

"You're going to be late," he whispered, kissing Ste softly and pushing him away with a glance at the clock.

Ste's body hummed with disappointment – he had been hoping for something rather more attentive, and the dismissal stung slightly. But Kyle was right – Ste was late for work as it was.

"I'll see you later," he promised as he left, blowing a kiss as he shut the door behind himself. As he walked down the path, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself to protect from the chill autumnal air, his mind was on the deli, and the food he would shortly be creating; the customers to serve.

* * *

The letter was a horrible, horrible joke, gone completely awry and not by Joel at all; Brendan was sure. For one: _rose_ fragrance? Not even Theresa was that much of a girl, and Brendan would be damned if it were Joel spritzing away with his perfume.

Second of all: were they thick?

Brendan though back quickly, trying to remember a single instant in the past three years during which he had even mentioned considering returning to Hollyoaks. He drew a blank – there was no way! And, even if he _had_ considered it, which he hadn't, he had never spoken to Joel about it. So why would Joel think he wanted to go there?

Grumbling to himself, Brendan slid the card back into the paper envelope and threw it into his desk drawer.

It was too late, now, anyway – the date on the card was for later in the afternoon; Brendan would never arrive on time.

"Michael!" He called through his open office door, and the younger man appeared, willing and eager, in the frame.

For a second, his expression reminded Brendan of...

Another reason not to go back.

"Yes, sir?" Michael offered hopefully, his hands full of paperwork and a cleaning rag still tucked through the loop of his uniform.

Brendan had meant to ask him if the file on the new building in the city centre had been found yet; he might have said something about the state the tables were left in the previous night; on a nicer day he might have suggested something about checking the facebook pages. But, in the end, when he opened his mouth to talk, what came out was, "I'm going away for a couple of days."

What? No, he wasn't.

"It's Joel's wedding, see?"

What was he _doing_?

"You going to be ok until I get back?"

HE WASN'T GOING ANYWHERE.

Michael, his impish features full of admiration, leapt to attention, "Of course, sir!"

Well that was settled.

Roughly, angrily, Brendan jerked to his feet. He found the jacket slung over the back of his chair without looking, shrugged into it, glanced at his phone (just in case some miracle happened and he was forced to let this particular endeavour go) and stalked out. He would drive straight to the ferry, buy a present on it, stay for a couple of hours and come back.

For Joel.

He had to admit – he missed Joel. The stupid, blundering presence around his club had become a part of him; he missed the way he would sulk after they fought, he missed the way he would smile – with a fierce pride, but pretending he didn't really care – when Brendan said something decent about him. He even missed Theresa; not for herself (really, he had never taken to the girl the way other boys seemed to), but for the happiness she brought Joel. It would be nice to see them again, after all this time.

* * *

The wedding had been good. Joel and Theresa looked overjoyed; she was beautiful, and Ste could admit that Joel had looked hot in his tux – a pretty couple if there ever was one. Cheryl had cried, of course, and Joel's mother had turned up to smile sadly from the front row; that was a nice, if odd, touch. Ste was so happy for them: only a few years ago they had next to nothing, but each other; now they had everything they could want, including each other.

They had the reception in the park – a small marquis with the food inside, a couple of waiters handing out champagne, a band in the corner and the sunset behind. Risky, if you took English weather into account; but the day had been perfect.

Ste smiled as he watched the happy couple, arms entwined around one another, lost to the world.

"They look nice," he whispered to Kyle, only to turn and find his boyfriend not, as he expected, on the bench beside him, but several metres away engaged in conversation with a handsome man about their age. Ste smirked – typical Kyle.

Cheryl was there, instead; Ste hadn't noticed her arrive.

"Hey, Chez," he greeted cheerfully, and she sent him a big, teary smile in return.

Ste teased, "Hey! He'll be fine!" It was cute, the way that Cheryl cared for the boy who wasn't hers.

Cheryl sent him a look – one that was probably meant to convey surprise, bewilderment, and condescension; it came across as desperate and frightened, "I know that! It's just that...neither of them are very good at cooking." She came up with an excuse randomly, and Ste bit back a chuckle.

"It'll be good for the deli, then, won't it?" He pointed out with a grin.

Cheryl laughed, too.

They lapsed into silence, watching the guests moving around. Ste had known some of these people so very long – Darren and Nancy, Rhys and Jacqui, Tony. It was strange, in a village as strangely tumultuous as theirs was, to see everyone happy.

Joel's face lit up - a beam of light in a floodlit room, a flame in the middle of a fire – and Ste's lips tugged upward in accord without knowing why.

"Oh," Cheryl sighed beside him, but the rejection of the noise was overwhelmed with what was coming from Joel's mouth – like a nightmare – as he released Theresa and took a couple of fast steps in the direction on the marquis.

"Brendan!" He called, and with another couple of steps he stopped, forcing Brendan out of hiding to come forwards to hug the boy.

They wrapped around one another, both laughing slightly, holding tightly.

Ste's heart clenched furiously.

What was he doing here?

"Chez," he started, turning to the bubbly blonde, but Walker was already there, pulling her to her feet and fixing a supportive arm around her waist.

"Why?" Cheryl whispered, but again Ste didn't hear – at that moment, Brendan let go of Joel, with the customary manly slap on the shoulder, and his eyes met the three of them in the corner.

There wasn't even a flicker – barely recognition, no regret and miles away from hurt. Bastard.

Why was he back?

* * *

**Three Years Earlier**

Ste had left Doug in the deli, entwined in the sheets from the walls, his brave forgiving smile forgotten before Ste had walked out of the door.

He had been in a frenzy – half sobbing as he pulled on his clothes, slurring his words desperately as he barked them to the taxi (and, of course, he wouldn't have enough to pay the whole trip, but maybe Cheryl could help out). The drive had been awful: an interminable waiting, a juddering mixture of his pained heart and frightened mind. What if Brendan didn't make it?

And he had looked so small, when Ste finally arrived.

Hooked up to those machines, pale sheets around his blood-free face, bruising marring his clear skin, the edges of his 'tache singed. There was nothing Ste could do – nothing but sit and cry as he held his hand; nothing but hug Cheryl to him as she sobbed; nothing but hand her over to Walker's care so that she might get some sleep, and fall asleep himself with his cheek on Brendan's still hand until the nursing staff shook him awake and directed him to the nearest B&B.

He had looked so small.

When he had woken, a week later, he couldn't remember Ste had been there, Cheryl had told him. Cheryl had told him everything, afterwards, when she tearfully told Ste that her brother was leaving and that he wasn't coming back, and even the thought of Doug had not been enough to keep Ste from staying in bed for a week, and eating his weight in junk food.

And he hadn't seen Brendan again.

Nearly.

Until now.

* * *

**Present Day**

Joel had looked happy; that was good, that was the whole _point_.

But Steven hadn't; Cheryl hadn't.

It killed him, every time.

* * *

**Okay, reviews please! Just to let me know what's right, what's wrong, etc. Thankyou!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thankyou to everyone who read, followed, favourited and most of all reviewed Chapter 1! It** **really does encourage me to write faster!**

**With that in mind, this chapter is dedicated lovingly to: shoppinglegends, franceGLfan, Mondo91, MaryArtenis, DarkRaiser91 ! Thankyou all!**

* * *

"So who is he?" Kyle wanted to know, bouncing infectiously by Ste's unresponsive side. Ste looked at him blankly - who was this guy again?

"The guy that Cheryl and Walker and yourself are freaking out over?" Kyle prompted, the smile fading slightly as he took another glance in Brendan's direction. That nearly shattered his heart – Kyle, his brilliant, untainted boyfriend, looking at _Brendan_.

Ste shrugged, hoping that Kyle would just drop it. He didn't think he could stand for Kyle, too, to be associated forever with Brendan in his mind.

Ste had missed thinking his name...

No, he hadn't! That was a stupid thought and he didn't know why he'd had it! He'd been over Brendan for years, well before he met Kyle. And he _loved_ Kyle.

"Why's he here?" Cheryl appeared by their side, her eyes wide and Walker not far behind, his plans of escorting her out of sight apparently dashed.

Ste shrugged again, he didn't trust himself to talk.

"Joel will have invited him," Walker said calmly. Apparently being an undercover police agent gave you some perspective in these situations.

"Why?" Cheryl barked, glaring at the groom – chatting away happily to Brendan without any knowledge of the havoc he had wreaked in their corner. Stupid, Scottish boy.

"God, he's hot," Kyle remarked, craning around Walker to check out Brendan's arse. "I definitely would!" He was trying to make the situation lighter, Ste knew, but he just wanted to hit him.

Calming himself, Ste took Kyle's elbow and lead him into the shadows of the tree before he could do more damage.

"That's Brendan."

Kyle didn't understand – Ste had never told him about Brendan, and he wasn't close enough to Cheryl or Walker for them to have said. But for some reason, his strong face morphed into knowing, and Ste was left as confused as he had been before.

"Amy told me," Kyle murmured, dropping his gaze ashamedly to Ste's feet, "right at the beginning."

Ste felt like he'd been punched. Kyle had known, and pretended he didn't? He'd never even given a hint.

"Everything?" He asked, heart in throat. If he knew...

But Kyle shook his head daintily, "No details. She just said you'd had a rough time of it."

Thank _God_. If he was telling the truth.

"Are you going to talk to him?" Kyle asked, and his voice was frightened bravado.

Ste smiled reassuringly – this, at least, he knew for certain. "Never." Kyle's smile was relieved and infectious, and Ste kissed his boyfriend softly to remind him that Ste was his, for as long as he'd have him.

* * *

"I can't believe you came!" Joel said, for what must be the fifth time. He wouldn't stop smiling, and it soothed Brendan's still aching heart.

"Couldn't miss your wedding, could I?" Brendan teased, giving Joel an obvious once over.

He had meant it as a reminder of Joel still in his tux, still a newly wed, but Theresa, the daft bird, took it the wrong way, and immediately shrieked with joking indignation about keeping his 'tache off her husband. Joel grinned at husband, and Brendan laughed too.

"No worries about that, Mrs Fox," he joked, "the boy's like a son to me."

A flash of his father, quickly quelled.

Joel beamed, and Theresa smiled as she cuddled into his side.

But Brendan could feel _his_ eyes on his back.

"I need a drink," he commented abruptly, shooting the couple a smile as he backed away, "You get back to dancing."

"Will you still be here when we stop?" Joel called after his retreating figure. Brendan just put up one hand to show he'd heard. It wasn't like they'd dance for very long...

His fingers brushed the rim of a champagne glass tenderly – he ached to reach down and slip his hand around the stem. He drew away, shaking slightly. Just, no. Instead he took a bruschetta.

God, that was good.

Steven's work.

_Shit_ he wasn't meant to be thinking about him...

Brendan's eyes roamed to find him, despite his brain's half-hearted attempts to stop it. A second later, he wished he hadn't looked: Steven was kissing some bastard under a tree.

Dead romantic, in full view, tenderly – just how Steven always liked it. Fuck.

Fuck the boy, fuck Brendan, fuck _Steven_ for Christ's sake. Fuck this. Fuck Brendan's stupid heart.

"Brendan?" Brendan nearly kissed Darren Osbourne as he called him away from watching Steven and the bastard.

"Hey, Darren." He greeted dully, trying and failing to summon up a smile, choosing instead to stare sullenly over Darren's shoulder.

Darren chuckled nervously, "Didn't inspect to see you here, mate. Long time no see." He laughed again.

Some people were such bad actors.

Brendan stared at him, "It's Joel." He pointed out, like it was obvious. And, amazingly, Darren smiled genuinely.

"Yeah, it's great isn't it?" He smiled again, looking at the couple.

Brendan looked, too, at his boy and his boy's wife. _Wife_.God, that sounded old.

"Yeah." He agreed, and himself and Darren shared a look of pride. Joel had done good.

"Cheryl and Walker next." Darren said softly, glancing at Brendan shyly; he didn't know he would react.

Brendan didn't know how he'd react, until he heard that.

He wanted his sister to be happy, forever, and he would put aside his hatred of Walker if it made her happy; but he still hated him; he was still angry.

He doubted he'd be invited to that wedding.

Declan could tell him about it, afterwards.

* * *

"Do you want to get out of here?" Kyle asked, and Ste nodded without thinking. He didn't really want to be out of here, if he was honest. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. But Kyle wanted to get out of here, and Ste was happy to oblige.

"I'll go and say goodbye to Joel," Ste kissed Kyle's cheek, and vanished before his boyfriend could object.

Ste was _not_ going to the marquis.

Ste was _not_ going to the marquis.

Ste was _not _going-

Ste was in the marquis.

"Why are you here?" He barked, startling Darren Osbourne out of whatever stupid remark he had been about to make. He sent that one packing with a look.

Brendan's back was towards him – his sold, sturdy expanse of back that Ste knew by heart. It looked bigger. _He_ looked bigger. Maybebecause the last time Ste had seen him...

"For Joel," Brendan didn't turn to face him.

Thank God.

"I don't want you here." Ste told him, straight off. Best to just make sure everyone was on the same page.

"_I _don't want me here." Brendan grumbled quietly, and then louder, "I won't stay long."

Ste didn't say anything else – he turned on his heel and left, forgetting to say goodbye to Joel, to wish him well, to kiss Theresa on the cheek and tell her she looked beautiful. He picked up Kyle on the way out. He was silent the whole ride home.

He couldn't tell if he was thankful he hadn't seen Brendan's face.

* * *

Brendan _knew_ Steven didn't want him there. He wasn't stupid.

"How long are you here for?" Joel appeared beside him, offering him champagne which Brendan shook his head to.

At Joel's surprised look, "I have to drive." True, but not the reason.

"Not long," he replied in return to Joel's earlier question.

Joel nodded, his dark little head bobbing thoughtfully, "Did you bring me a present?" Brendan laughed loudly.

Cheeky bugger.

"Ferry presents weren't up to scratch," he replied, "didn't think you'd appreciate a teddy bear that sings Jedward." Joel laughed along, but there was something triumphant in his eyes.

"Well, I know what you can give me then." He smirked.

All at once, Brendan was afraid.

"Cover at the club while I'm on my honeymoon." The younger man ordered.

Brendan opened his mouth to outright refuse – why would he do that? – but no sound came out, and Joel took the opportunity to remind him: "My _honeymoon_, because I got _married _today."

And he looked at Brendan with those childish eyes like a fist around his heart.

God damn him.

"How long are you gone for?" Brendan asked; subdued. Surely only a week at most?

"Three weeks." Joel replied, all chirp again.

"I'll have to check with work..." Brendan tried to wriggle his way out of it.

Disapproving, Joel reminded him that he _owned_ the club in Dublin. Brendan could take however much holiday whenever he wanted.

Brendan sniffed, "Not much of a holiday, is it? Leaving my own club to go and look after _yours_."

_A busman's holiday_.

Brendan wished he hadn't thought of that.

"Fine, whatever." He grumbled

His stupid mouth, saying things he didn't mean.

* * *

"So, what happened with Brendan?" Kyle wanted to know as they walked through the door.

Ste shot him a silencing look, but he wasn't to be deterred. He sensed gossip and he was taken, hook line and sinker.

But Ste, too, knew how to play Kyle: he turned and pushed him against the wall, using surprise against his lover to edge him back towards Ste's bedroom. His hands found Kyle's belt.

"I want you," he lied in a whisper. And they silenced each other with their mouths and fingers and bodies.

Kyle pushed him onto the bed gently, tenderly; but Ste wasn't in the mood for love-making, he wanted to be overwhelmed – he flipped onto his front, a clear message to the person behind him.

Kyle grunted in amusement, trailing his lips down Ste's spine, "God, you're hot."

Ste sighed into his boyfriend's ministrations. This was _exactly_ what he needed – to have his body sing so loudly that it overshadowed his screaming heart. His moaning mouth found Kyle's and he took his tongue into his own; his fingers gripped the bed; and Kyle rolled on a condom.

"I love you," he heard Kyle whisper, as he lay a kiss gently on the small of Ste's back, and then he pushed in. Ste groaned, long and hard, bucking backwards to increase the pace: Kyle obliged.

It was hurried and frenzied, lacking any style or finesse, but it was _good_. _Kyle_ was good.

If, at the end, blue eyes shattered into Ste's eyes as he came, that wasn't Kyle's fault. If, to feel the harshness of it against his cheeks, Ste pushed into Kyle's stubble-covered face, that wasn't Kyle's fault.

* * *

**Chapter 2 out in what must be record time! Reviews, please! Hope you enjoyed it!**


	3. Chapter 3

**This was originally only half of one chapter, but when I got to the end of what's here I realised it was a better cut-of point then later, so here you go. Shout out to shoppinglegend!**

* * *

The bell clinked on the deli door, and Ste growled an obscenity from his place on the kitchen floor, back against the green cabinets. He could have sworn he put the closed sign up – it was probably Kyle, and he _really_ wasn't in the mood to talk to his boyfriend; sure, the sex had been great_, _but Ste wasn't one for cuddling in the night and Kyle would be upset that he'd skipped out on it.

There was shuffling from the shop, and with another angry sigh Ste heaved himself to his feet and stumbled in the right direction.

Brendan's face was like a slap in the face. Brendan's face was like having his head repeatedly smacked against the countertop. Brendan's face was like being forced to eat food until he threw up. Brendan's face was light being shined directly into his eyes; so beautiful it hurt.

Ste had forgotten how he used to do that.

"Brendan." His voice was unusually strong.

"Steven." Brendan mimicked his calm tone.

Yesterday Ste had been terrified, excited, furious; emotions had overwhelmed him to the point where he had forgotten to think this was _Brendan_ standing before him. Now, having been calmed down sufficiently, he drank in the sight.

Brendan _had_ got bigger – his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, nearly popping the arms of his suit. It was so blue that it contended with his eyes, but it was matched perfectly with the charcoal grey suit. Some things, such as fashion taste, Ste guessed, never changed. His 'tache was still there, bold and fierce as ever; his eyes; his hair black against his skin.

Good enough to eat, though Ste wished he weren't.

Of course, it didn't _mean_ anything. Plenty of people were attracted to someone – it was like fancying a film star_: _it didn't mean anything necessarily, it was purely on looks. It wasn't like he loved him.

It wasn't like he'd missed him for three years.

"What can I get you?" Ste looked to the counter, taking an inventory and guessing what Brendan would want. They didn't have any jam in – maybe he could get Doug to...

Doug? No, Kyle.

Brendan looked confused for a second – meeting his eyes for the first time: the effect was a nearly visible rise in Ste's heartbeat. Ste saw the second he understood: he glanced to the menu, back to Ste like he was asking permission, smiled slightly, and concentrated on the food.

"What's the special?" He gestured to the clear board.

Ste didn't even check his notes, "Halumi and sweet chilli chicken salad or pizza. Avocado, olives or Parma ham optional."

Brendan's eyes slipped closed for a minute – a standard Brendan reaction when faced with delicious sounding food, "God, I'll have that. Please." The courtesy was an afterthought, Ste knew.

"Pizza?" The idea of Brendan having salad was laughable, and the look on Brendan's face told him just how much so.

Had _anything _changed?

"So when are you going?" Ste asked abruptly, rummaging for the pizza below the counter and handing it to the Irishman gingerly.

Brendan abruptly looked awkward. Not in the way most people looked awkward – with their face – but with a subtle pull of the lock of hair behind his ear. Ste wanted suddenly to bat his hand away. It was a stupid habit.

"Joel's coerced me into staying until he gets back," Brendan mumbled.

Ste's lips twitched.

"What happened to Doug?" Brendan changed the topic quickly; too quickly to be comfortable in the flow of things.

Strangely, it was weird that Brendan didn't know. Logically, Ste didn't know why he _would_. Cheryl wouldn't have mentioned, he'd asked Joel not to, so unless Brendan had been checking up on him he wouldn't have found out. Which was ridiculous. It was just that, he didn't even understand it himself, with Brendan being such a part of Ste and Doug's life together – even though they pretended he wasn't – he had inserted himself even into the parts he hadn't been in.

"He moved back to America," Ste accepted the note that Brendan handed him.

Their fingers were only centimetres apart. Not that he noticed, really.

Brendan looked surprised, "Why?"

Why did you move back to Ireland? Ste nearly snapped back.

But they weren't in that place. They weren't in that place, because they hadn't seen each other in three years, because Brendan had moved away, because he had gone without a care in the world and without looking back and because he had left Ste a sobbing wreck. And just because he was back didn't change anything.

Three _years_.

"Look, Brendan," Ste snapped angrily, his feelings rushing back into him like a jackhammer forcing its way through his veins, "I don't want to talk to you about Doug. I don't want to talk to you about _you_, I don't want to talk to you about _me_, I don't want to talk to you _at all. Ever_!" He smacked Brendan's change back onto the counter, ignoring the sting of impact in his sudden rage.

How dare the stupid, fucking, bastardly, wanker, _lying_ Irishman? How_ dare_ he?

Brendan scooped up his change, "Fine."

And he was gone. Because that was Brendan – always leaving.

Fuck him.

Ste reached for his phone, dialling a number with shaking fingers.

"Hiya, Kyle, can you come round?" He asked when it picked up at the other end.

* * *

Brendan swirled his drink around his cup, surveying the golden brown liquid longingly as it flowed around the ice: it looked so good. Lifting it to his mouth, he poured a generous mouthful. His eyes slipped closed, blessedly - it _tasted_ so good.

He spat it back into his cup.

"Well that was hygienic." A voice remarked sullenly from the stairwell, where people were just beginning to appear from as the evening got darker.

"Fuck off." Brendan meant it, but he looked up at the speaker anyway rather than continuing the battle with his drink; or not his drink, as it happened.

Walker...Walker looked good. Still lean but built, similar brown flop over his forehead, same half-mocking half-self-deprecating curl on one side of his mouth; he had a tan, though - a healthy glow to what used to be bereaved skin.

Cheryl, too, had one; when he'd glimpsed her.

Walker strode over (two students leapt out of his way as they looked between the two men, and Brendan cracked a conspiratorial smile with Walker, though neither of them meant it).

"How long are you staying for, now?" Walker wanted to know, taking a gulp of Brendan's drink.

"Planning ways to kill me?" Brendan asked, only half joking. They faced off for a moment, the club spinning stationary around them.

"I stopped doing that." Walker admitted. He gestured to the drink, "And that's disgusting, by the way." It didn't stop him from finishing it. "It wasn't a healthy obsession."

Brendan smirked, "For either of us."

A brief picture of fire, of his thudding heart and terrifying news being drowned out by the roar of and explosion.

And then he saw the bloke in the corner. Good looking, if you were into the slouch-y look; pressed up against another man. Gay affections had stopped bothering him almost entirely – now, this couple necking didn't upset him any more than if one had been female – but something inside him twinged at the sight.

And for once, he could swear on his kids' lives, that it wasn't because he wished it was Steven and himself.

"He's called Kyle," Walker commented, following Brendan's gaze. The man with his back slid a hand into the other's shirt: if it went any further, Brendan would have to go over there and break them up.

Brendan sent Walker a look: what did Brendan care about the lad?

But he _should_ care; he _did _care; he just didn't know why.

"Everyone knows, including Ste, and he's fine with it."

Thud, whoosh, crack.

A thud of a heartbeak, the whoosh of anger, the crack of a heartbeat.

Was Steven settling for less?

Or was this _bastard_ still more than Brendan ever had been.

Brendan could remember him now – his lips brushing the lips Brendan dreamt of, his hands caressing Steven's neck. Like he caressed this other guy now.

But he couldn't very well go and pull them off one another now, could he? Not with Walker watching – it would look like he cared.

"How's Cheryl?" He asked instead. He scanned Walker's face for signs, and saw only the tell-tale softening that comes of talking about a loved one.

"Perfect," the man replied, his fingers brushing his jaw as he leant against the bar. "She's happy, Brendan, and that's all that matters to me." He could mean it, too, Walker – it was the only reason Brendan hadn't killed him yet; that, and he was actually a _cause_ of Chez being happy.

But Walker, apparently, had something to say: "You told me something a long time ago."

Brendan knew what he was talking about – that day on the beach when he had been unable to deny it any longer, because he had proof that it wasn't in his head. He missed his Nana. And he had told Walker, who hated him.

Echoing Brendan's thoughts, "I still hate you. I'll never forgive you. But I just wanted you to know that I'll never tell, for Cheryl's sake." And with a turn of black cloth and flash of an expensive watch, Walker slid out of the club between the heaving punters.

* * *

**Three years earlier**

Ste wished he had wanted to kiss him less. Right at the beginning, with Brendan crouched above him and them on the floor, he wished he hadn't kissed him. It would make his life easier, wouldn't it? So what if he still thought he was straight?

A sharp rap on the door, and Ste leapt towards it - what if it was Brendan? What if he hadn't left? What if it had all been one, harrowing dream? What if -

It was Doug.

Ste tried and failed to stop his face from falling as he saw his fiance.

"Hi," he mumbled, letting his better half in.

"Hi yourself," Doug replied, shy chirpy.

Slouching back to the kitchen, Ste flicked on the kettle automatically. He didn't know if he had any milk in the house, and the tea he hadn't been able to find a week ago. He'd eaten nearly his weight in the kids' stale sweets.

"How are you?" Doug asked him, turning him around to face him and cupping his jaw tenderly. Blue eyes roamed Ste's face, searching for the answer to combat the lie Ste would inevitably tell.

"Fine." Ste mumbled, wriggling away tiredly. They were the wrong pair of blue eyes.

"Liar." Doug replied, but he sounded apologetic. Typical Doug, always afraid of being in the wrong.

"I have something to tell you," Doug started hesitantly, "and there's no nice way to do it. I'm moving away."

That made Ste turn around. What was _with_ everybody?

He looked at Doug's dear, beloved face a moment, and saw no hint of a lie. There could only be someone else, and he told Doug as much.

Doug looked at his feet, ashamed, "I'm sorry."

It's fine, Ste wanted to say - though that was horrible, because it sounded like he was forgiving Doug for something Ste himself had done the entire time. And anyway, if he said that he wouldn't be talking about Doug leaving: he would be talking about his life.

Neither of them said I love you as Doug left for the last time.

* * *

**There you go! Hope you enjoy it - reviews always appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Shout out to shoppinglegends and Iz! What a week we've had on TV! Loved every second! **

**Best line: "You'll always be my problem" or "In the bedroom". What do we think?**

**Anyway, here you go!**

* * *

**Three years earlier**

When the door was rapped upon, Ste was out of his position – curled up on the sofa, as he had been for far too many hours – in an instant.

What if it was Brendan?

What if he wasn't leaving?

What if he needed to see Ste because he loved him?

What if he just wanted to stay with Ste for ever?

What if-

It was Doug.

Ste's fiancé.

"Oh," Ste breathed, and hated himself for the miserable slide of his expectant features down his face.

Doug sighed, too, taking in the greasy tracksuit bottoms hanging off Ste's leaner-than-ever frame, his face gaunt from lack of sleep and food and his eyes empty in the way they only can be after they have cried long and hard.

"Hey," Doug smiled tiredly, and Ste let him in.

Being hospitable was like learning to walk, to Ste. He had to fight to remember that he should offer a cup of tea, make eye contact, and initiate polite small talk or funny witticisms. He managed to flick the kettle on, but then he forgot what came next on the how-to-make-people-like-you list.

"I'll do it," Doug said quietly, taking the teaspoon out of Ste's motionless limp hand.

Blearily, Ste watched his boyfriend stir four sugars into one cup, and one into the other. He couldn't remember which tea was his; he didn't care.

"How are you?" The American asked, leading Ste back to the sofa where he sat stiffly in his haven, tea already forgotten about.

What did that even mean?

And where was Brendan?

"Look, Ste," Doug set his cup down on the side, "I don't know how to tell you this," he swallowed nervously, and though Ste's eyes fixed upon him with what could be avid intent he cared not what he was about to say.

"I'm going back to America."

Ste reacted to that, at least: one slow blink, a furrowing of his forehead, "Why?"

But Ste knew – he wasn't stupid. Doug couldn't be around Ste anymore. He couldn't watch the man he loved rip himself apart over a heartless bastard that had left him, without saying bye, until only faded hopes and regretful memories permeated his last dreams as he woke up.

Why hadn't Brendan said bye?

"I'm sorry, Doug," Ste began to cry softly – honestly, years later he would be amazed that he hadn't been cried out by that point – and Doug's face morphed into horror as he saw so. "I'm sorry that..." But Ste needed to breath, and in the sobbing breath he raked in Doug crossed the room and gripped his arms.

"Ste, this isn't your fault!" Doug insisted, brushing away the tears, "I've fallen in love."

Ste had fallen in love with Brendan.

Wait, what?

"What?" Ste asked, barely believing it. What had his fiancé just said. Ex-fiancé, make that.

Doug looked ashamed of himself, his blue eyes cast to the floor and his back slightly hunched as he gulped nervously, apologetically, "I'm sorry."

Ste couldn't quite process it.

"When did this happen?" He wanted to know, taking a step away from the man he thought he knew.

"I feel like I've known him my whole life," Doug admitted.

It didn't really answer the question, but, as Doug dropped a final, melancholy kiss onto Ste's still lips and made his way out of the door, Ste understood.

Where was Brendan?

* * *

**Present Day**

Mitzeee was in again. Chattering away about God knows what, sticking her bum out at customers like anything, twisting hair around her finger. If Ste had been straight, he would have begged to do whatever she asked of him – and they both knew it – but Ste was gay, and while the guys in the queue behind her and her short dress, he was not enjoying the wait as she decided what she wanted.

"Salsa Exotica," Mitzeee purred, pursing her lips calculatingly and 'by accident' glancing at the good looking boy in the queue behind her. He was too young for her anyway...closer to Ste's age than hers. But Ste didn't want him – he had Kyle. And this bloke was quite obviously straight – the way he stared at her breasts.

"Just order, Mitz," Ste sighed, rolling his eyes heavenwards.

She shot him a look that was pure flirtiness, until she remembered that it wouldn't work and scowled, "Fine." She muttered moodily, "I'll have a Café Latte, no sugar."

Of bloody course she would.

And Ste was prepared to bet she had known that when she walked in and wiggled her way around those there before her.

"Here y'are," he slapped it onto the counter, along with her change a minute later. She would get a surprise when it was luke-warm the first time she tried it, but that's what you get for messing with the boss and she knew it.

"Thanks, babe!" Mitzeee trilled, scooping up the coins. Ste would not be sorry to see her go – though from the look of it Tom Cunningham (who was working as a dish cleaner in the back, secretly) had a different opinion.

But Mitzeee didn't go: "How do you feel about getting lunch?" She asked instead, tipping her weight forwards so that her forearms rested on the granite countertop.

"What?" Ste asked automatically, his brow crinkling with confusion as one cheek worked its way up the planes of his face. It was a mannerism he had picked up from Amy years before, and he had never managed to break it.

It was Mitzeee's turn to roll her eyes. "Lunch. I eat, you eat, we have a nice chat?" She sighed, and he felt a surge of irritation at her pretending he was stupid. He wasn't.

"Yes, I know what lunch is, thanks," he bit out sarcastically, "I just don't know why I'd want to have it with you." A vague insult for a vague insult.

But Mitzeee looked genuinely hurt, and Ste regretted his harsh words almost instantly.

"I suppose we haven't had a catch-up in a while," – try, ever – "so I'll see you in the Dog at one?" She beamed, throwing her arms around his neck and leaving a red stain on his cheek as she pressed her lip to it.

"See you there!" And, finally, she sashayed out, taking several male customers with her.

Ste glanced at Texas, who was smirking in his general direction.

"What did I just do?" He asked her, lips pinching down in the corners even as hers cracked upwards.

"Ste," she teased, voice sultry, "you acted like any guy. You just got Mitzeee'd."

And the worst thing was: she was right.

* * *

God, he was gorgeous.

Not reacting to Steven was not working out so well for Brendan.

It was just...kind of hard, you know? - When you walked into a pub and bam he was there, leant against the bar, chatting away like he owned the place. Was there anywhere he _wasn't_? On your first venture out of the office in three days, and there he was. Joel's getting married was not enough for this...

"Brendan!" And now he had been spotted by none other than Anne, who was more of a faker even than Brendan and who would likely not let him go until she had squeezed every morsel of gossip from him, even if he didn't have any. The girl seemed to have the notion that just because he was gay he _liked_ to talk about things girls liked to talk about.

"Anne, what a pleasure," he growled softly, taking the seat she thrust at him reluctantly.

"Brendo!" She cheered again, pulling him into a one armed hug and crashing her lips to his extravagantly. He fought the urge to wipe them.

He fought the urge to check if Steven was watching.

"How are ye?" He asked her, genuinely curious. After all, when he had left she had been on the run from the police. Now look at her – happily not a WAG though technically a WAG and married to Riley. Mercedes McQueen must be furious, whatever hole in hell she'd crawled into.

"Fantastic." She popped her consonants, grinning up at him like the cat that got the cream. Expensive cream. "What about you?" She surprised him by asking. Anne was lovely, but she liked people to focus on her.

"Any gossip?" She didn't surprise him by asking.

"Brendan." A voice cut in behind, deeper than Anne's.

* * *

**Five years earlier**

Brendan pushed Steven back onto the bed. His body hummed for the boy, and he was surprised by its intensity because he had never felt this alive; never felt this incredible need before. He put it down to unfamiliar surroundings, but before he could analyse it further Steven pulled him down by the neck, crashing their lips together hard enough to make Brendan and himself groan with pain as well as pleasure as their hands fought for each other's flesh.

It would be tonight, Brendan was sure of it.

By now he was almost certain that Steven had never been penetrated before, and it gave him a thrill of power that, now and forever, the boy's virginity – his _real_ virginity – would be Brendan's, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Wild with need, Brendan's lips left Steven's, tracing a path down his neck until they were hindered by one of the chavvy t-shirts he liked to wear. Frustrated, Brendan sat back, intentionally pushing his weight down on the lad's groin to make him writhe beneath him as Brendan yanked the offending item over Steven's head and arms.

God, he wanted him.

The boy was firmer than he looked, Brendan learnt the next minute. Yes, he could feel his ribs when he pushed him back onto the bed and crawled over him; yes, his own body more than covered his partner's; yes, he was slightly afraid of putting too much weight on him. But Steven fought back – he clawed at Brendan's back to get him closer, he sighed in content as he was forced back to the mattress, he used the strength of his thighs to grip the older man to him in a trap that neither wanted to break.

"Brendan," he whispered into his ear.

* * *

**Present Day**

"Steven," Brendan replied without looking round. There was only so much a man could take and with the memory of their first time together fresh in his mind Brendan would prefer to maintain his carefully constructed control.

"You're in my chair," Ste pointed out drily – contrasting with the way he would forever sound in Brendan's imagination: needing, wanting, desperate, hot.

"Take mine, love, I'm done," Anne leapt to her feet, all sparkling teeth and eyes. She kissed you – on the cheek this time – and teetered over to a protesting Steven.

"You haven't had anything!" He insisting, receiving his own perfunctory tap.

"Oh," she smirked, "I've got everything I need." When Steven turned away to roll his eyes she winked dramatically at you.

Stupid cow was trying to play cupid, and he glared at her for it. That ship had long sailed, he knew; it didn't stop the stutter in his heart as Steven sat down quietly, both of them watching the woman they were now furious at strut out of the room.

"Cow." Steven muttered.

Charming, Brendan thought sarcastically, but he didn't say it out loud because he didn't have the right to mock Steven, or to be affronted.

But Steven wasn't leaving, and when he noticed Brendan's inquisitive glance he coloured slightly, "Just because she isn't eating doesn't mean that I'm not starving!" He defended himself, taking a fork full of chips from beside the burger on his plate.

"You know you're a chef, right?" Brendan asked, just to clarify.

Steven looked confused – God, he was adorable when he looked confused – so Brendan took it upon himself to explain, "Why eat burgers if you can cook lobster?"

Steven's face was a picture, "Why would I want lobster for a quick Thursday lunch?"

It was a good point, and Brendan conceded it with a shrug of one shoulder and a look out of the window.

"Doug went back to America."

It came out of nowhere.

One second, Brendan was idly watching the water play across the pond – and not so idly avoiding looking at Steven – and the next the confession hung in the air between them; cold and emotionless, but an offering nevertheless.

Brendan couldn't help looking at him, then.

Ste didn't know why he'd said that, and the moment grew ever more awkward as Brendan fixed those royal blue eyes on him and waited for something that Ste was not entirely sure he was meant to deliver.

"You asked, the other day," Ste reminded Brendan, having hunted around for a point to make to switch the oddness back onto the other player.

Brendan nodded – the second time he'd let something Ste said be right. It was a minor victory, but each counted for sure.

Ste's eyes followed the slope of Brendan's shoulders into his neck – he could see the ever present crucifix peeking subtly from beneath his collar. They trailer across his rugged jaw line, shaped his lips and traced his moustache; they looked at the hairline, the heavy brows and the straight nose; and then the looked into his eyes.

And Brendan hadn't been looking.

Once upon a time, he would be met with cocky indulgence: 'like what you see?' Now there was nothing.

He had moved on.

It hit him nearly as hard as the first time – Brendan wanted nothing to do with Ste. He didn't want a casual fuck, he didn't want a lasting relationship, he didn't want friendship or family or forbidden romance. There was nothing between them.

Ste didn't cry this time.

A brief flash of Amy when she had come to visit him in the aftermath: "Maybe you should get out more, work him out of your system; desensitise".

"Brendan," he leant forwards onto his elbows, peeking up at the older man from under his lashes, "Would you like to go out for a drink tomorrow night? With Kyle and me?"

Ste hadn't listened to Amy then: he had fought hard to never think of Brendan, and he had thought it worked until now.

This time, he would stare at Brendan until his heart stopped beating faster or he had a heart-attack.

* * *

**And that's this chapter! Hoping to roll out another one by the end of the weekend, so wish me luck with that because what's coming up is preeetty big.**

**Review please, as always; they really do encourage people! Thankyou!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi everyone! Thankyou to all reviewers (you know who you are! ;) ) and to everyone who read Forgive Not Forget! Hope you enjoy Chapter 5!**

* * *

Ste shook slightly as he smoothed his hair slightly, surveying himself with a critical eye in the mirror. His hair was messier than the last time he had seen Brendan – he had ditched the styling and kept it to a rough cut, no gel – and his clothes were better. Not that he was trying tonight, or anything, because tonight was about him getting used to the fact that _Brendan _looked good.

He smoothed one eyebrow, because it was messier than the other.

"You okay, love?" Kyle asked, appearing in the doorway in his trackies, taking a bite out of his toast as he waited for Ste's answer with expectant eyes.

Ste swallowed, "Yeah." Was this colour too bright?

"You look hot," Kyle complimented, brown eyes running over Ste and taking in his lithe form.

"Ta," Ste mumbled, not knowing what Kyle had just said.

Kyle smirked, turning away.

"So, making an effort are we?" He padded barefoot into the kitchen, pouring water from the kettle into his coffee and taking a searing gulp: just the way he liked it.

"What?" Ste pulled a face, "No!" He sniffed haughtily; he didn't care what Brendan thought of him – because Brendan _didn't_ think of him, that much was clear.

But Kyle's words shook him from the stupor of nerves he had been entranced in, and with a brisk shake of his head – shit, did that mess everything up? – he marched towards the door.

"So, you've been at an interview, call in an hour and I'll tell you whether to come or not?" Ste clarified, he halted in the doorway, glancing back to his boyfriend who was laughing at him discreetly.

"_Yes_," Kyle agreed for the fifth time, emphatically, "And _you_ will be fine, so go!" With a friendly push, Kyle nudged Ste towards the outer world; towards Brendan.

Ste considered turning back: going back to his warm duvet and his warm boyfriend.

He flicked the collar of his jacket up against the wind, glanced at the moon, and set off walking.

* * *

Brendan drummed his fingers against the bar, tapping out a disjointed rhythm that matched that of his heart.

He shouldn't be doing this – he should be in Dublin, with his boys or by himself, safe in what he knew and knowing what kept him safe. He wanted his sleek flat, the noise of quiet, the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

But it hadn't been like that since before he met Steven, five years ago.

"Brendan?" Steven called behind him, soft against the roar but oh so loud. His voice sighed into Brendan's pores, setting his heart alight and raising a twitch behind his lips.

"Steven," Brendan greeted, turning to face the new addition.

He looked good.

So good.

The blue shirt clung to him, showing off the lean body (though it had thickened in the years apart, which Brendan didn't like). His trousers clung to him in all the right places. His belt had real metal on it.

Brendan wanted to tell him that he looked well, that he was gorgeous, to see the flush rise from beneath his open collar into his eyes. But he couldn't stand it if he did so, and that blush wasn't there. Instead, he moved from behind the bar, allowing Steven to see him, too.

Steven looked him up – Brendan wanted to shiver, but pretended not to notice the boy's gaze as it travelled over him – and laughed.

"Well, this is new." He commented, and Brendan too smiled because he knew what Steven was talking about.

For the first time, Steven was the only one wearing a suit.

They had tried every other combination: Brendan in a suit, them both in a suit, neither in a suit. But never before had just Steven worn one.

Brendan hoped that Steven understood the subtext: this time, Steven had all the control.

He wondered what subtext Steven wanted him to see.

"Are you ready to go?" Brendan asked, gesturing towards the door, where people were streaming through.

"We're not staying here? For drinks?" Steven looked surprised.

Brendan couldn't help himself – he didn't try hard, but he doubted he could have stopped it anyway – he leant in. One hand found Steven's hip, gently, and the other brushed the silky strands of hair away from Steven's ear.

"I told you before," he whispered, barely millimetres from the boy's skin, his heart jumping the space between them, "I don't like busmen's holidays."

He could nearly taste Steven.

His eyes drifted closed, and he moved backwards.

"Shall we?" Thank God that his voice didn't shake as much as his legs did.

Steven, bright blue eyes shining, nodded silently, and lead the way.

Their car drive was silent – apart from the one minute conversation about the whereabouts of Kyle.

The restaurant was cool and classy – not formal, but hardly Maccy D's. It suited Steven's new look more than Brendan's, and he could feel the disapproving looks on his jeans.

But who cared when Steven walked ahead and he looked so damn delectable?

"What would sirs like this evening?" A waiter, tones distinctly not local, asked politely, appearing silently by their side as they simultaneously laid down their menus.

Brendan gestured for Steven to go ahead.

"I'll have the penne, please," Ste requested, smiling shyly at the man.

"And I'll have the steak, rare," Brendan asked, when the man glanced at him to signal his turn to speak.

The waiter left, and Brendan turned to Steven expectantly.

"Well?" He asked, quirking his moustache at the younger man.

"Well?" Steven replied, though his face betrayed no confusion.

Grinning, Brendan leant forwards, resting his elbows on the table cloth, "This is your party, isn't it?"

Steven leant backwards – a slap in the face along with the reminder that this was not a date.

Brendan sat back.

"I was just wanting to catch up," Ste replied, smoothing his napkin on his lap beneath the table.

Brendan swallowed, nodding, "So what do you want to know?"

Ste shrugged, "Dublin?"

Brendan nodded, "Of course. My turn?"

Ste signalled it was so.

"How's Cheryl been?" He didn't tear up when asking about his baby sister: he had done enough of that.

Ste sighed, looking up at him cautiously with those killer lashes, "She's been ok. I mean, nothing particularly _bad_'s happened to her."

Brendan nodded again: he hadn't really expected anything else. He would have heard on the Brady grapevine.

"How're Eileen and Declan and that lot?"

That lot.

How could Steven refer to his only family so casually?

"Fine." Brendan said calmly, "Eileen got married, Declan finished school, Padraig got a girlfriend." He summarised what each would think of as their main achievement.

Steven's lips twitched.

He wished he didn't like that so much.

"What's been happening?" Brendan sighed, leaning forwards again and not caring that Steven didn't reciprocate. He was sure he had far more questions than Steven.

Steven sighed again – really, there were a lot of repeated elements this evening – and began to talk.

He told Brendan, as they waited for their meal about how Doug left for America (Brendan couldn't say sorry) and that Walker moved in with Cheryl not long after Brendan left as they ate. He spoke about Kyle, and Darren and Nancy, and Jacqui and Rhys and their little adopted girl; he told Brendan about how Leah started doing ballet and was showing real promise, and how Lucas was still obsessed with cowboys; he recounted stories of the deli.

On and on he spoke, losing himself in the casual chitchat and probing questions, laughing at Brendan's sardonic replies and teasing Brendan when he grumbled about one development or another.

At some point he leant inwards.

At some point his phone buzzed repeatedly in his pocket, but he didn't hear it.

At some point his fingers brushed the Irishman's, and neither of them moved.

And hours later – long after they'd both polished off their chocolate selections and both had two coffee's – Ste ran out of things to say.

"And that's Hollyoaks," he finished simply, laughing slightly as he realised the restaurant must have filled and then emptied again, and the only other people were a couple clearly on their anniversary, so wrapped up in one another that neither had they noticed their lack of fellowship.

"Wow," Brendan teased, fingers brushing over his moustache dryly.

"Shut up, you," Ste blushed, hiding his eyes by staring into his mug.

"You're cute when you blush," Brendan replied unexpectedly, making Ste's breath catch in his throat and making him blush more.

"Ta," Ste whispered.

Brendan's eyes burnt to his core; his fingers pressed harder against Ste's own.

"Gentlemen?" A voice interrupted, silky smooth, "The restaurant will be closing soon, we must ask that you make ready to leave."

For God's sake.

Who even talked like that anymore?

Brendan stood, hand on Ste's arm as he helped him to his feet, and they quietly paid the bill and headed to the car.

The moon was brilliant above them, and they both instinctively craned backwards to catch a glimpse of the stars as they breathed in the fresh air.

"I had to park a couple of streets away," Brendan told Ste, as though Ste hadn't been there.

Ste smiled at the concerned man.

"It's fine," he promised, and set off.

"So, I've talked non-stop for three hours, your turn." Ste nudged Brendan as they moved along, hand firmly in his pockets so that he wouldn't be able to do anything he'd later regret.

"What do you want to know?" Brendan's voice was a murmur in the wind.

Where have you been? Why did you go?

But Ste couldn't taint the night.

Tonight, he was someone he hadn't been in a long time: he was the carefree boy from before, back when he could smile without knowing he was supposed to, and laugh though he didn't get the joke. It wasn't that he didn't love Kyle, or that he did love Brendan more; it was that tonight he was a different Ste – like he had stepped back in time and donned an outfit that he remembered fondly.

He didn't want to remember the bad things, too.

He was too in love.

Instead: "Tag!" Ste's hand – when had he told it to leave its confine? – reached out to tap Brendan on the shoulder.

The larger Irishman was so surprised that his mouth fell open slightly, "What?"

But his only reply was Ste's laughter as he dodged out of the way, jogging down the moonlit, empty street and calling over his shoulder.

"Steven!" Brendan called, irritation vying with amusement in his voice and mind. There was no way he was playing tag with Steven; no way he was chasing after him.

"Steven!" When he received no reply, "I'm not going to follow you!" The boy's footsteps grew quieter.

"You _have got_ to be kidding me," Brendan whispered, and he set off at a jog.

"Steven!" He sing-songed, weaving his way through two cars so that he could run directly down the centre of the street. Where had the boy gotten to? He couldn't get home by himself, and Brendan wasn't leaving without him.

"Godsake, Steven!" He growled, when he guessed he'd gone as far as the lad. He glanced around at the sleek cars, guessing which one he would be behind.

"Steven?" Brendan juttered to the left, glancing quickly down the pavement. Nothing.

"Steven!" He called.

Soft hands wound their way around his waist, "Yes?" The smaller man whispered in his ear.

Brendan sighed back into the touch, tilting his head backwards so that Steven's lips were briefly against his jugular.

"What are you playing at?" Brendan intoned, his smooth Irish accent coating Steven in its warmth.

"Me?" Ste teased, like he had done nothing wrong, "Just tag."

"Just tag, eh?" Brendan muttered, gripping Steven's hands tightly, suddenly, so that when the other man wriggled he couldn't get away.

"Brendan..." Ste warned, pulling against his restraints but instead being tugged back into the elder's warmth. If he stayed there any longer, covered from the breeze by the expanse of Brendan's masculine back, wrapped in his scent and the feel of his hands on his wrists, Brendan would soon known exactly how much Ste was liking it.

"Let me go," Ste ordered weakly, lying his head against Brendan's shoulder.

"Or what?" But Brendan released one hand.

Even if it was only so that he could rotate them so they were pressed chest to chest in the centre of the road.

"Or what, Steven?" Brendan whispered again, tightening his hold – now around Ste's waist.

Ste looked into the silhouette of Brendan's face; his hand found the edge of the moustache and, in a mannerism so unexpected it made Ste smile even in the sombre quiet of the situation, Brendan tilted his head and kissed the palm of Ste's hand.

"Why did you leave?" Ste whispered.

The question was not awkward as it pulled them apart.

Brendan was sad as he looked at Ste, and Ste was sadder.

"I couldn't hurt Cheryl any more," Brendan admitted, his shoulders dropping slightly as his lips pinched down.

Ste had known that Cheryl was angry even before Brendan left – she had told him that much, at least. He didn't know what Brendan had done to deserve her hate, but he had witnessed the unfailing adoration she had showered him with beforehand and knew that it must be pretty bad. Well, he said pretty...

"I missed you," Ste admitted quietly.

Brendan's fingers found his cheek, "Oh, Steven," Ste looked up into his face, older than he remembered but just as beautiful, "I missed you so much."

When their lips met it was like Ste's world was complete.

When their lips met, the moonlight bathing them in its white perfection, the world around Brendan brightened before vanishing completely.

Both men began to cry.

* * *

Brendan let Ste into his B&B room quietly, flicking on the light and dropping his leather jacket onto the only available chair.

Ste hovered in the doorway.

"Are you coming in?" Brendan asked, and both knew he didn't mean that.

"I don't think so," Ste replied, but stepped in and closed the door behind him anyway.

"Kyle will be asleep," he told Brendan gently, glancing at the blinking digits on his watch.

Brendan looked at Ste, "You're welcome to stay."

They both looked at the double bed.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Ste said, shrugging out of his jacket.

"Maybe not," Brendan agreed, and then they met in a clash of tongue and teeth and desperate gripping fingers, clothes flung hastily to the side as they tripped over their own tangled legs and fell onto the bed together.

* * *

**That's it: hope you liked it! Reviews, please! ~Meli**


	6. Chapter 6

**God, it's been aaages since I last updated, and I'm sorry about that. It's going to be another wait (I'm going to Italy in two days! Eek!) but after that I have a whole week of doing nothing so can whap out a good couple of chapters! Hope you enjoy chapter 6!**

* * *

Ste stretched languidly, his body lengthening as his muscles pulled at the exquisite tightness in his thighs, his stomach, his shoulders, his tongue. The ache that came with sleep eased slightly, and he smiled into Brendan's shoulder because could anything be better than this?

Blinking his eyes open, Ste glared contentedly into the golden light streaming through the B&B window and sighed.

It was a lovely day outside: the sun streamed through the numerous vacancies in the clouds, and birds – you could say what you liked about pigeons, but Ste for one liked them – littered the phone lines. The sheets were cool, contrasting with the warm body pressed against Ste's side.

Wriggling around, having suddenly remembered that he was not alone, Ste propped himself up on one elbow and peered down at his companion.

Yes, he was definitely still attracted to Brendan Brady.

For once, the larger man was relatively still – a feat that Ste had yet to see him accomplish when awake. Even in hospital Brendan had been...twitchy: though that was understandable, Ste guessed.

Now, his lips slightly open as he breathed and his eyelashes gently brushing his cheeks Ste decided he liked this Brendan. He didn't look like a Brendan – he looked more like a James: defined, sophisticated.

Could you call someone sophisticated when their legs were wrapped in yours and both of you were naked?

Apparently so.

"I can feel you watching me," Brendan murmured, his fingers capturing Ste's wrist delicately and his tache curving upwards in a smile.

_I love you_, Ste's subconscious whispered.

It took his breath away, the depth of which he loved Brendan: wholeheartedly, with all his soul, you could throw whatever cliché you wanted at Ste's feelings and it would be matched.

"Good morning," he leant down, brushing his lips – they were tingling – against Brendan's throat, scratchy with morning stubble and leaping with his pulse.

Brendan groaned, his hands lightly brushing up Ste's sides as he moved the boy to straddle him and coming to rest nested in Ste's sandy hair. The sheets tented around them as they lay for a moment, locked in the bubble that was each other.

Brendan opened his eyes, and smiled.

"Hi, you," and he leant up to kiss Ste in earnest this time.

The slow, burning desire that began somewhere below Ste's stomach and raced through his blood like an avalanche took over Ste, and his hands dug into the pillow on either side of Brendan's face to stop himself from dragging the man to him by force even as his legs clamped over the thighs between them.

His tongue met the Irishman's in a delicious cocktail of remembered flavours: the flavour of reunion and the flavour of desire and the flavour of _Brendan_ and his voice and his touch and his heart.

Their teeth bumped against the fervour of their need and he could feel Brendan shifting higher so as to assert control more readily and he both welcomed it and was disgruntled by it. It was so _familiar_, but they had both changed.

Brendan nuzzled into Ste's neck, inhaling the scent of him, touching his tongue here and there like retracing a long lost map. He smiled into the hollow of the boy's collar bones, and he could feel Steven's hand soft and warm on his stomach, tracing through his treasure trail in such a way that Brendan found it hard to concentrate on anything else.

"I love you," he whispered into Steven's ear.

Brendan woke up with a start, breathing hard.

His heart was racing and sweat pooled at the back of his neck as he automatically checked the bed for Steven's presence. He swallowed down lust and disappointment as his hand reached for the place in the bed where he had imagined the boy, as though he didn't believe the evidence of his own eyes.

The bed was empty; Steven had left.

Brendan's head flopped back on the bed. Shit.

Once his heart rate slowed and his hard on had been sufficiently dampened by thinking of Eileen, Brendan thought back to Steven.

He could remember them coming in to the B&B, and he was almost certain that was real. He was fairly certain they had kissed (he wasn't quite sure how he would have given himself a love bite on his hip...) and his body had the same aching satisfaction he associated with sex. And then...

They must have fallen asleep together. Brendan would definitely remember if Ste had left after that (_Brendan_ certainly hadn't kicked him out, for once), so he must have fallen asleep. But had Steven? Or did he wait in the dark for his chance to slip out without a scene being caused?

Did he regret everything?

* * *

_Shit_.

Oh, God.

Oh, fuck.

Ste was a bad person.

That was all there was to it: Ste was a shitty, horrible person and he deserved to go to hell.

Well, he would if he believed in-

That was beside the point, he was a bad person.

Ste groaned, his head lolling back and knotting his fingers behind his neck, scrunching his eyes and nearly bowling over an equally stressed looking lady as she exited the house he was passing.

Oh, the walk of shame: they shared a sneaky, sympathetic, judging look and then looked away before they saw too much.

Ste's hair was probably just as tousled as hers, his own mouth slightly swollen from the force of the kissing, smelling of stale sweat – his and someone else's – and wearing last night's clothes.

God, he was such a...

He was a horrible person.

He kicked roughly at the curb, fighting back a fresh wave of irritation when it didn't shatter into a million pieces. Those comic books he had looked at the pictures of were misleading – no matter how many vegetables he ate (and he'd tried eating them once or twice) he would never be able to melt concrete with his eyes.

Brendan probably could, he thought suddenly, the image of the Irishman's gaze – so hot that it burned delightfully into Ste's own – flashing over his vision.

So, apparently desensitising didn't work.

Ste rounded the final corner – ("Hi Carmel, can't stop for a chat") and came into sight of his flat. His grotty, slightly smelly, always damp, much loved council flat.

Kyle was sitting on the doorstep, a cigarette curling white smoke delicately from the brilliant red tip, thumbing through an old Wuthering Heights that he had dug up from Ste's long forgotten school past.

"Hi." Ste buried his hands in his pockets. His suit pockets.

His suit which he had worn yesterday when he met Brendan for innocent drinks that lead to tag and going back to a B&B and having sex one (or two or four) times and having to walk home like some tramp who cheated on his boyfriend. Which he did.

Kyle glanced him over distantly, placing the book on his lap and setting his hands on the concrete beside his legs, "Hi yourself."

Ste looked down at his feet, toeing the ground.

"Look, Kyle, I know what this looks like," he began awkwardly.

"Did you sleep with him?" Kyle asked, scrunching up his eyes at the sun and refusing to look Ste in the face even when Ste managed to raise his eyes.

"Yes." Ste said, unwilling to lie. Lies were the one line he would not cross...

Kyle nodded for a moment, his permanently chattering fingers going still, "I'll make the coffee, shall I?"

* * *

"Thanks," Ste repeated – for maybe the fifth time – cradling the steaming mug between his palms and blowing on the smooth dark surface.

"You're welcome." Kyle replied sardonically, watching his boyfriend over his own empty mug.

The silence between them stretched on, growing more and more painful as Ste ran out of objects to examine carefully rather than meet Kyle's muddy brown eyes; it grew so tense that Ste's breaths came faster, that he acknowledged it as the actual cause of the slight stabbing sensation between his lungs.

"Thanks!" He blurted, just so that he could add something else to the horror unfolding.

Kyle rolled his eyes, "You're _welcome_. Look, Ste -"

"I'm sorry!" Ste cut in, coffee spilling from the cup onto the cheap wooden table as he put it down hastily, licking a burning drop from his finger absently. "I'm so, _so_ sorry!"

"Ste -"

"It's just that I didn't think!"

"Ste-"

"And I was buzzed-"

"Ste-"

"And I _know_ that's no excuse, but-"

"Ste!" Kyle shouted, cracking his knuckles on the dirty surface. "It's _fine_."

Ste stared, "What?"

He couldn't have heard that right, surely. No one, ever, had said that Ste and Brendan sleeping together had been fine. Ever. Except maybe Ste had muttered it, before he learnt better. _No one_. They always judged, or misread the situation, or were homophobic. It wasn't _fine_. It was the furthest _possible_ from fine!

"It's fine." Kyle repeated, taking a gulp of Ste's drink. "Look, there's no need to feel guilty: we've said from the beginning that this is a non-exclusive relationship, haven't we?"

Ste nodded.

"And we've both been honest about our partners, haven't we?"

Ste nodded again.

"And both of us have been safe, so there's no chance of passing anything on, is there?"

Ste shook his head, cheeks suddenly burning - ("God, Stephen!" Brendan muttered, pushing the boy's head towards his cock desperately, roughly. Ste licked a drop of pre-cum from the tip, and rolled the condom on, kissing down the Irishman's pulsing shaft as he went) - though he had no idea why.

"So there's no big deal!" Kyle insisted, leaning forwards to capture Ste's lips briefly and reassuringly. "Now why don't you get showered up? I need to get to work." And, scraping his chair along the floor – Ste wished he wouldn't do that – Kyle got to his feet, ruffled Ste's ruffled hair, and sashayed off.

* * *

It was just sex, then. Just sex. Just two men who happened to find one another attractive and who made a night of it in the heat of the moment. And if Man B's boyfriend didn't care then neither did Man B. And if Man A didn't live around those parts and was leaving soon, Man B didn't care either. Man B was fine. _Fine_.

Ste was freaking out.

Every time the shop door opened – _why did they have one of those little ringing bells installed?_ – his head jerked off the countertop, the "service-with-a-smile" face mixed with dread to create a strange effect that made him look high, as Tom Cunningham had pointed out.

Cheeky bugger.

"I'll have the ham and cheese panini," Tony asked politely, 'umm'-ing and 'ah'-ing over the salads displayed in the superior manner that made Ste remember why he'd scammed him all those years ago.

Why hadn't Brendan come? Ste wondered as he handed Tony the meal.

Why hadn't he called? He mused as he passed over his change.

Why was Kyle so calm about it? And, also, where was Brendan? As he sent Tom home as his shift finished.

Ste let his head sink back onto his arms, resting against the counter. Screw scaring away new customers, he had earnt it.

The door opened, shut, and locked.

Ste's breath caught.

Of bloody course. Stupid Ste, worrying that everyone was Brendan; like he wouldn't _know_ when it was Brendan.

"Tired?" Brendan asked sarcastically, stalking over. "I think we need to have a chat."

The older man looked tired as he sat in the deli, long legs propped on the glass table like he still owned the place; tired and young and utterly intimidating. Or, at least, like he should be intimidating, back in his sharp suit and silky appearance. Ste didn't have a clue what to say, but he wasn't nervous. Was there anything they _hadn't_ said, at some point?

"Do you want to go first?" Brendan asked quietly, glancing up at him. The closed blinds cast shadows onto his face that wouldn't normally be there, and they caught the underside of his smile.

Ste smiled too – for once they were in completer harmony, both remembering a single, beautiful moment ("Shall you go first, or shall I?" "Ever day..." "I love you").

"It's your turn," Ste reminded, because he had last time.

Brendan nodded, understanding, and the smile dipped from his face, "Well, then."

Ste waited.

"First..." Brendan's voice trailed, and Ste heard the ragged breathing of the man and wanted to reach out to him. But he would wait, and see what Brendan was going to say.

"First," Brendan began again, "I should say that I still love you." Ste's heart caught in his throat. "I love you and I never stopped and I don't think I will. Let's just get that clear." He chuckled, like he found any of this funny.

"That said..." Brendan rubbed his face, and, for the first time since he had entered the shop he looked at Ste dead on. Their eyes roamed one another freely, drinking one another because finally they both understood.

They loved each other.

"That said I'm not staying in Chester." Brendan finished, like Ste knew he would. "I can't."

Ste nodded, "Cheryl." He already knew this.

Brendan, too, nodded.

"I'm not leaving Chester." Ste replied, because how else could this have ended? He _couldn't_ leave Chester: his business, his past, his friends were all here – his kids were only a short train away!

He couldn't leave all that, just for Brendan.

Brendan wouldn't leave that for him.

"Right." Brendan got to his feet jerkily, moving stiffly towards the door. Ste rose, walking there too (like he was escorting a child home, he mocked himself).

"I guess..." Ste began awkwardly.

What do two men who love one another say when they've just resolved – not because of each other – to not be together? Was this a handshake scenario? Kiss on the cheek?

Go into the kitchen and have sex?

No! Bad Ste...

"I love you," Brendan reminded Ste, turning towards him after sliding the lock open.

"I love you," Ste whispered.

One of them leant towards the other, caressing each others faces, and their lips brushed gently, tears falling into the gaps as their lips grew apart slightly.

Brendan's hands gripped Ste's face like he could anchor him there forever.

Ste's tongue sought the taste of Brendan, as though he might ever forget.

And then one of them pulled back – Damn Air Goddamit! – and the gap between them widened.

Brendan turned, opened the door, and stepped outside.

The threshold had never been so uncrossable.

"The offer will always stand," Brendan took a step away, "if you ever want to come."

Ste nodded, and waved goodbye.

* * *

**Three Years Earlier**

Brendan was gone.

Brendan was gone.

Brendan was gone.

Brendan, however, was standing in Ste's living room.

"I shouldn't be here," he muttered – _again_ – and Ste wanted to punch him almost as he wanted to kiss him and make sure he never left again.

"Why are you here?" Ste asked, and although Brendan looked at him Ste wasn't sure that he heard.

"I'm leaving." Brendan said, instead.

Ste nodded – though a shard of something appeared to have magically teleported directly into his heart and was rather hurting, "Cheryl told me."

"I'm not coming back." And this time, Ste actually put a hand to his chest, just in case.

"Come with me." Brendan begged, crossing the distance between them and capturing both Ste's hands in his own. "Please, come." He kissed Ste hard on the mouth – he tasted of whiskey – and then dragged away so as to better see Ste's eyes.

Ste buried his face in Brendan's chest – God, he liked Brendan's chest.

"No," he whispered. "I can't leave my kids."

He had thought that was the last time he would ever see Brendan, and he had never – not with all the rejections, all the humiliations, all the breakups – expected anything like this.

"I love you." He whispered, long after Brendan had left.

* * *

**There you go! Plenty of angst, plenty of Stendan feels; hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are like a Stendan reunion (who am I kidding? but they're still good!). Much love to all those who have reviewed in the past!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Arrived back yesterday and whapped this out for you! Hope you enjoy it - I don't particularly but I think that's mainly because of those spoiler pictures in Dublin having made me so excited (I am definitely now including a bridge at some point).**

* * *

Brendan tossed his keys onto the desk with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his right eye and soothing his moustache at the same time. He grimaced, just for the sake of it.

"Is everything ok, sir?" Paul asked nervously from the doorway, staring at the floor rather than his boss in case Brendan actually answered.

Brendan didn't.

Instead, he banged a few files into order, swept his keys onto the floor to make more space and slumped into his chair. When Paul did not leave immediately, he sent him his favourite what-are-you-still-doing-here-why-don't-you-just-go-and-die face, and the younger man scurried from the office abruptly, swallowing down adrenaline.

Brendan rubbed his eye again. Stupid Paul – sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Why _wouldn't_ Brendan be ok? Business was booming, his boys were doing well, he had sex last night; what else mattered in life? His life was no doubt better than Paul's: just this morning he had heard all about how Paul's wife – Marlene – was blowing all Paul's wages on _boots_. See, Brendan didn't have to deal with that problem; or anniversaries, or staying out late, or fancying strangers. Brendan had it all.

Almost.

* * *

Ste put the phone down, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and immediately raised it again to dial a new number. Watching him from over the table, Kyle raised a speculative eyebrow, asking silently what had Ste in such a fantastic mood all of a sudden.

"What's got you in such a fantastic mood all of a sudden?" He asked out loud, when Ste was uncooperative with their non-verbal communications.

"Amy!" Ste near squealed down his mobile, turning his back on Kyle (not out of malice or disinterest; Ste just preferred not to face people when talking on the phone), "You'll never guess what!"

Kyle heard the murmurs – words indiscernible – of Amy's voice, and he took another gulp of coffee. He had never really understood why Ste kept in touch with Amy so well: obviously, his kids lived with her so it was hardly like they could pretend she didn't exist, but did he really have to be so pally with her? It wasn't like Kyle cared, or anything, it was just that he didn't understand how you could be best friends with someone you slept with (and abused, but that was another thing Cheryl wasn't meant to have told him).

"Doug's coming back!" Ste shouted joyfully, after Amy had guessed wrong several times.

Kyle heard Amy shouting back cheerfully, and he rolled his eyes at their youthful exuberance. Honestly, some people just never grew up – and Kyle, though he would pretend otherwise, loved that about Ste (less so about Amy).

He quickly ran through a checklist about what he knew of Doug: Ste's ex-boyfriend, American, opened the deli together, left Ste shortly after Brendan left. Nothing particularly threatening about him at all, as far as Kyle could see. He was fine with this visit.

"I _know_, it's been so long!" Ste was intoning nostalgically, and Kyle became bored and got to his feet. He rinsed out his mug, dropped a kiss onto Ste's distracted cheek, and vanished into the bedroom to decide on what he was wearing.

When Ste joined him – still in his boxers and still grinning maniacally – a few minutes later, Kyle had shrugged into a brown top and loose fitting pale blue jeans, and was in the process of shoving trainers – falling apart a little, he would have to buy a new pair soon – onto his sock clad feet.

"Are you going out?" Ste asked, turning to his own pile in the wardrobe.

Kyle hummed his agreement, "Give you a chance to catch up with Doug in private," he teased, his mind already on the thrumming daytime club.

Ste laughed, "Ta. Well have fun, wherever you're going," he leant over to peck Kyle lightly on the lips, and Kyle left without a care in the world.

Almost.

* * *

"I'm so glad you're here!" Ste sing-songed yet again as Doug and him paced through the village. He rested his head on Doug's smaller shoulder, and the American laughed just as happily as he patted Ste affectionately.

"Me too! It's been so long!" He twanged.

Ste chuckled, recalling his words to Amy that morning, "That's what I said to Amy!"

Doug twisted round, "Telling people about me, young man?" He teased, nudging the older man with the shoulder that Ste rested on.

Ste laughed loudly, "Oh, how could I resist! You're hot gossip, you!"

They giggled together for a minute before lapsing into easy silence in the drizzle of rain surrounding them.

"So, how've you been? What's the _real_ gossip?" Doug challenged finally, taking a seat on the low brick wall in view of the deli.

_Brendan came back_, Ste thought automatically.

"Joel and Theresa got married!" He replied instead, grinning.

"No way!" Doug cried, disbelieving, "Well they took their time!"

Ste giggled, "Not everyone gets engaged after four months of dating, Doug," he reminded the American jokingly.

Doug sent him a glance, as though telling him that something wasn't quite right with that sentence. Well, he couldn't expect them to pretend that nothing had gone on between them, could he? Because Ste wouldn't do that: their time together had been precious to him, even if he had been rubbish at showing Doug that.

And, speaking of engagements.

"Speaking of marriage, I hear congratulations are in order…" Ste trailed off meaningfully, casting a look at Doug's fourth finger on his left hand, where a gold band nestled against his tanned Californian skin.

"Two years late!" Doug was abruptly jolly again, his face sinking into happy abandon as he brushed his wedding ring reverently.

"Well, if someone was better at keeping in touch!" Ste accused.

"Well if _someone_ had ever called me!" Doug bounced the blame back.

"Well if _someone_…"Ste paused. His mind raced for something, but he drew a blank and stuck his tongue out at Doug instead.

Doug snorted, but his face grew serious immediately afterwards, "Look, Ste, I meant to apologise to you."

Ste frowned. What?

Seeing the confusion on Ste's face, Doug rushed on, "For leaving the way I did. With no warning and…"

And for someone else. They both heard it, even if it wasn't said.

"Doug, it was hardly your fault you fell in love." Ste promised him, squeezing his fingers gently. "You couldn't stay with me. You did what was best for both of us, and everything worked out well." He offered Doug the fragile smile of forgiveness, but the American wasn't ready to take it just yet.

"You were so upset, and I didn't know how to fix it." He admitted.

"You couldn't have," Ste smiled wryly, a brief flash of the pain he had felt crossing his heart and leaving almost without trace.

Almost.

* * *

"What happened, after?" Doug looked at his hand, twisting the wedding band on his finger rather than meet Ste's eyes.

"With Brendan?" Ste asked, the hole in his chest reaching his throat painfully. Doug nodded. "He left, just as he said he was going to. And I got over it."

Until Brendan came back.

And Ste realised he hadn't gotten over it.

Just pushed it to the side and put a wall around it.

"Mostly," he tacked on, just to be honest.

"He came back recently, for the wedding." He told Doug, and the younger man looked up at him with those incredibly blue eyes because he sensed that this was perhaps something that would matter for the rest of Ste's life.

"And then he left again." Ste finished.

And he was right.

Almost.

"Hi, Cheryl," Amy materialised from behind an aisle, and Cheryl screeched and dropped the salad she had been inspecting morosely.

"Amy love, don't sneak up on an old lady like that!" She covered her wildly beating hand with her heart, glared at Walker (who was laughing at her wholeheartedly from the till), and threw a beaming smile at the other woman.

She wrapped her chunkier arms around Amy's slender frame and received the returned hug gladly: she _liked_ Amy.

"How are you, love?" She asked, once they released one another.

Amy shrugged cheerfully, "Oh, same old, same old, you know how it is." She selected a few choice meals from the wrack and, together though without the salad, they passed the corner to where Walker was waiting expectantly.

"No salad?" He teased his girlfriend, winking at Amy.

Cheryl pretended not to hear him, turning her back decidedly, "When did you get here"? She asked Amy instead, as Walker began to unpack their groceries.

"This morning!" Amy informed her. "I'm not here long, it's just that Doug came back quickly and I fancied catching up with him. It's been a while, anyhow." She cast a degrading look around what of the village she could see.

Cheryl chuckled, "It's gotten better, recently." No one pretended that they didn't know of what they spoke: Hollyoaks was surprisingly trouble-ridden.

Amy smiled, "I know, Ste's been saying."

Something inside Cheryl squirmed at that, though for the life of her she didn't know what (Walker, on the other hand, did – it was called Brendan) and she had to force a smile to her jaw, "Well, he's a star, as always."

Amy nodded, and the danger zone was gone.

Almost.

* * *

"Doug!" Amy called, abandoning her shopping to the curb and rushing across the deserted square to fling her arms around the American's neck and squeezing.

"Amy!" Doug cheered back, kissing her extravagantly on the cheek.

"How are you?" They both said at the same time.

Amy looked at Doug, and she was happier than she thought she would be. She was hardly _close_ to Doug, she had hardly _missed_ him when she'd gone, but here she was overjoyed that he had returned. Why was that?

"How are you?" She asked breathlessly, as they meandered back to her groceries.

"Great!" Doug enthused, rattling off how perfect his life had become: his own deli (him and his new boyfriend – _husband_, she corrected herself happily, taking in his ring – had opened one soon after Doug had landed in America), his husband, the adorable baby they'd just adopted.

"She's called Hannah," he showed her the picture of the plump little darling, sucking her thumb and waving at the camera.

"She's gorgeous!" Amy told him honestly. Doug nodded.

"But what about you?" He twisted the attention back to her, looking at her curiously.

"I'm great, too!" She told him, "I just got a new job in a High School in Manchester, the kids are doing great, Ste's doing great and…what?" She huffed a slightly laugh at the look that shattered across Doug's face at the mention of Ste, sure that it was a fluke and he would laugh it off.

He didn't – instead, he swallowed and looked away.

"What is it Doug?" Amy asked again, coming to a halt on her way back to Ste's flat, turning to face the American with growing alarm. Surely…Surely Doug didn't still have feelings for Ste? Oh, he hadn't come back to get back together, had her? No, because he wouldn't talk so enthusiastically about his partner if he was. So what? Maybe he knew something she didn't. Was Ste _really_ ok? Surely Cheryl would have said if he wasn't? He wasn't ill, was he?

"Nothing," Doug muttered, too late, and Amy grabbed his arm as he tried to turn away.

"What _is_ it Doug?" She asked again, louder.

Doug cast a look around him, checking that the coast was clear, "Look, I'm not really sure what's going on…" He hesitated, then ploughed on at Amy's fearful expression, "He mentioned Brendan had been back recently?" His voice lifted with a hopeful question at the end. Like he hoped Amy could explain this fact away. Like he hoped that it meant nothing, and he could believe what Ste had to say on the subject.

Amy couldn't explain it.

How could she, when Ste had forgotten to mention it?

_Brendan _had come back? _Brendan_? Brendan _Brady_? I'll-make-you-fall-for-me-break-your-heart-and-you're-ribs-and-then-bugger-off-back-to-Ireland Brendan Brady?

Like it could be anyone else.

"Oh," Amy said quietly, understanding that maybe Ste and her weren't quite as close knit as everyone – including them – assumed.

Brendan was back?

And Ste lied to her.

Almost.

* * *

"Kyle?" Cheryl called, as a figure catapulted from a nearby doorway and sprawled onto the grass, lying on the wet ground and laughing as though the funniest thing ever had happened.

She pulled Walker over to his prone shape and peered down at him with concern.

"Hiya, Cheryl!" Kyle giggled, "Hiya, Walker!"

Walker rolled his eyes, releasing Cheryl's hand and reaching down to haul Kyle to his shaky feet, "Really, mate? Drunk before lunch?" Kyle giggled again, and Walker heaved down a groan of frustration.

"That rhymed!" Kyle wailed, "Drunk! Lunch!" He reeled of a fresh dose of hysterical giggled.

"For fuck's sake," Walker grumbled, throwing the smaller fellow's arm around his own shoulder, "Our place isn't far," he told Cheryl and, with her nod of approval, he pulled Kyle in the direction of their house.

"I cannot believe this!" Cheryl muttered to him, marching erect in the way that meant that she was either furious, humiliated, or both.

He sent her a look that told her he understood how she felt.

"It's getting worse!" She continued, ignoring that Kyle was right there (because, really, he wasn't). "At first it was just every now and then, but now he's drunk half of the time I see him!"

"Ste shouldn't be putting up with it," Walker agreed, less than sagely.

"No, he shouldn't!" Cheryl emphasised with an angry look in the culprits direction, but he appeared to be busy licking Walker's tense shoulders.

"Times like this you almost wish he were back with Brendan," Walker put himself on the line, waiting tensely for Cheryl's reaction.

Her eyes flashed stunningly angry, lighting her up with the fierce fire that had once been in defence of her brother; her lips came down in a hard line, opening to deliver a verbal death shot that would no doubt leave in him on the sofa that night and probably the next. Walker knew it was worth it: he had to get her used to Brendan's name somehow.

"Brendan Fucking Brady!" The words came from someone other than Cheryl though, and Kyle lurched away to point an accusing finger at Walker, "Don't you say that name in front of me!"

Cheryl and Walker exchanged bewildered looks before glancing back to the swaying, furious drunk.

"That…" Kyle coughed as he breathed in some of his own spit, but he was not to be deterred, "That _bastard_ thinks he can swan up and sleep with my boyfriend! Well, he's got another thought coming! Because if he comes anywhere near Ste again I'll-"

But they never found out what Kyle would do, because his particularly violent gesture threw him too far off balance, and he tripped over his own foot, hitting his head on the house door and collapsing in a knocked out heap on the ground.

Cheryl and Walker stared at one another.

"They _slept together_?" Cheryl asked desperately, her big eyes filling with tears and her fingers clutching her sides to stop the spikes of pain. Walker stepped over Kyle's body and wrapped his arms around her tightly.

"He's drunk," he reminded her softly, stroking her hair.

Cheryl sobbed into his shoulder, burying her anguish – as fresh as ever – into his warm, inviting body, "How could he _sleep _with him? How _could_ he? He _knows_ what Brendan's like!"

Walker's gentle murmuring in Ste's defence did not halt her damaged tirade, "He's so _stupid_. Even if…" she heaved a great sob, "even if we _want_ to, you should never take someone like that back!"

Walker knew she was long off Ste, even if she herself didn't.

"Even if he missed him, he shouldn't have slept with him! Even if he wanted to, he shouldn't sleep with him! Should he?" She lifted her bloodshot eyes, black smudges under them from the seeping mascara and beseeched him.

"Of course not," Walker assured her, holding her close.

He was being honest.

Almost.

* * *

"Are you alright?" Doug asked the stranger concernedly, taking an uneasy step towards the groaning man.

He looked back, tiredly, and his eyes asked what-the-fuck-did-Doug-think?

"I'll take that as a no," Doug chuckled nervously, backing away discretely.

"Yes, take that as a no." The man – good looking if he wasn't so scruffy – grumbled, dropping onto the grass by the side of the road, ignoring the bench a couple of metres away.

Doug glanced at the object, at the floor, considered asking the man to move and remained standing where he was, "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, though _he_ didn't really want to talk about it.

"Why do you care?" The man mumbled, head in hands.

Doug shrugged, "I don't, really. But my husband's got this thing for doing something kind every day and…"

"And I'm the lucky charity case," the man finished for Doug.

Doug shrugged again, apologetically.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked again, more assuredly this time.

Picking his head back up, the man fixed Doug with a stare so miserable it bordered on desperate, "My boyfriend slept with someone else," he admitted.

Doug sat down, "Ah."

"Ah." The man agreed, soothing down his crinkled brown top.

They sat in silence for a minute before the guy spoke again, "And, really, it should be fine because we're in an open relationship, you know?" Doug didn't know – they weren't really his thing – but he understood heartbreak and didn't believe that there were all that many different types.

"But it does matter." Doug stated the obvious.

"Obviously," the man grumbled. "I can't stop thinking about it." He trailed off, and rejoined the one sided conversation with more vigour, "It's not like _I've_ never slept with someone else. And it's not like there's anything more than sex going on with this pair but it's just…it was the first time _he's _ slept with someone, you know?"

Doug didn't know, again.

"I think… I think Ste's fine with it."

Doug's head shot up, "_Ste?"_ He gasped out. "You're _Kyle_?"

Kyle looked at him, just as surprised, "Doug?"

They surveyed one another with equal shock.

"I imagined you…bigger." Kyle said finally.

I imagined you more heartless, Doug thought.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said instead, heart still thrumming.

Kyle shook away the stupid sentence, "I can't believe I just…"

Showed his heart.

Told all.

Admitted.

Oh, God.

"You're talking about Ste and Brendan?" Doug asked, reason catching up with surprise.

Kyle flinched, answering.

Doug should walk away, he knew that. It was none of his business, and he was hardly impartial (he didn't love Ste anymore, and the hurting had gone long ago, but he could still _remember_), and he would only cause problems if he got involved.

It would be his kind-act of the day to leave them to their own business, not stick his nose in, let them sort things out for themselves.

"Look, Kyle," he began.

"What were they like around you?" Kyle asked suddenly. "What were Ste and Brendan like, before?"

Doug thought about it for the first time in a long time. What were Ste and Brendan actually like together? Well, they were passionate – either with hate or with love or with lust – and they were secretive – he couldn't remember them ever saying what they wanted to with one another – and they were unhealthy –any idiot could see that. Ste and Brendan weren't good for one another. Ste and Brendan would never work out. Ste and Brendan poisoned one another.

But when Ste and Brendan were together everything else paled in comparison.

They…they completed one another.

Or they had, once upon a time.

"Ste and Brendan aren't good for one another," he answered Kyle truthfully. "But it will never just be sex."

Kyle looked like he'd been punched.

Doug got up to leave, "I'm sorry."

He went ten metres – berating himself for avoiding his Kind Act and berating himself for not saying more in equal measures – before he had to spin around again.

"And here's the think, Kyle," the man in question raised his head, "_you're _not good for Ste. You let him pretend that everything's fine, when it's not. How's he ever meant to get over Brendan if you're in a 'open relationship'," he mocked the term. "How's he supposed to move on if you're making excuses for him not to?"

Because, and Doug had realised this when he moved away, that was all Doug had been, too. Oh, he knew Ste had loved him. But while Ste was in a relationship he didn't have to be _Ste_. He didn't get to be his own person, looking out for himself: he shared that burden with someone else, and hid his feelings for Brendan rather than work through them.

Until Ste faced up to everything, nothing would change.

"Think about it." He ordered, turned on his heel and left for the last time.

Almost.

* * *

**And that's it! Hope you liked it, the next one should be out shortly! Please review! ~Meli**

.


	8. Chapter 8

**This one's very short but very important!**

* * *

The envelope, when it came, was innocent enough. One of those 'official looking' things in the A4 brown coverings, with her name neatly printed on the paper below, showing through a glossed over cut out.

Cheryl barely glanced at it: why would she when she could run her hands over Walker's chest and groan into his mouth; when his hands found her thighs in that way that made her go weak and tremble; when his tongue was causing sparks along her collar bone and her lips burnt from contact with his shoulder?

Afterwards, they sat together at the base of the wall, their sweaty limbs as entwined as their full hearts, and he kissed the soft skin under her eyes softly, "Hi."

Cheryl chuckled into his neck, "Hi yourself." She pulled back and stared at her boyfriend, brushing the hair out of his eyes tenderly, both smiling.

"What do you have to do today?" She asked.

Walker shrugged, "Oh, you know, the usual – sort out a few rogue deliveries, that sort of thing." She laughed at his pun, and it lifted his heart.

"What about you?" He pulled her closer to him, so that her back rested against his chest.

"I'm going to the spa," she yawned, "for some relaxation time with Nancy."

"Are the little ones getting too much for her?" Walker asked wryly, getting to his feet achingly and bringing her up with him. Neither spared a thought to the curtains – open; the village had long gotten used to any accidental indiscretions from anyone.

"Something like that," Cheryl agreed, staggering in the direction of the bathroom. "But I won't be back late, anyway."

A few seconds later, the sound of the shower filled the flat, and Walker opened the fridge and surveyed its contents: there wasn't really anything to eat (he had _meant_ to buy something this morning, but he had been a little...distracted), and the coffee was running low. He mentally tagged a shopping list for himself.

As it was, he settled for sliding four slices of toast into the machine and bringing out a few jars of jam, arranging them neatly on the countertop. Cheryl wasn't much of a fan of jam, but he loved them.

"Thanks, love," Cheryl entered the room, taking two of the slices he offered her and sitting in her towel on the sofa, spreading butter generously over the burnt bread and sighing in delicious content at the way it melted.

"You're welcome," Walker headed towards the shower, leaving Cheryl to clean up – which she did, once she had finished.

She should go into work, she knew. There were several hours to kill before her trip with Nancy, and Rhys – while he knew the workings of the club inside and out – was liable to making silly decisions. She knew she _should_ go into work, but how could she? She was sated, in every sense of the word.

"I'm leaving," Walker leant down to drop a kiss onto her forehead, looking back from the door, "I hope you have a good time with Nancy."

Cheryl smiled at him sleepily, "I'll call you if anything untoward happens." She blew him a kiss.

She wasn't going into work.

She was going to get dressed – into tracksuit, because she couldn't be _bothered_ to ensure her cleavage wasn't all akimbo – and she was going to watch trash on TV. Hoisting herself to her feet, Cheryl ambled in the direction of the bedroom. She picked up the pile of hers and Walker's clothes that they had abandoned earlier, dumping it in the washing on her way past, and clicked the door shut behind her (though there was no one else there).

The envelope, back in the other room, waited patiently.

* * *

"Do you want a hand with that?" Ste asked, for maybe the fifth time, as Nancy struggled to get several too many shopping bags into one hand and receive her change with the other.

"I'm fine!" She assured him, gasping slightly, looking around for her two children – hiding, as per usual – and simultaneously attempting to dial Darren's number.

She dropped the phone with a clatter, "Shit!" Fresh waves of giggles exploded from behind the counter, and Nancy hastily backtracked, "Don't tell Daddy I used that word, darlings!"

"Nancy," Ste urged, coming round the barrier of the till and receiving most of her bags from her. He ushered her to a chair – which she collapsed upon gratefully – set down her bags, flicked the kettle on and retrieved her phone. "Take a rest," he told her sternly.

"Unghnghng." She replied drowsily, her head slipping to the side to rest upon her shoulder.

Ste rolled his eyes, but affectionately. He was hardly like Nancy, but he could sympathise with the ordeal of looking after two young children – completely horrendous and something he wouldn't have changed for the world.

He made her a coffee – and Walker, when he bustled in briefly – and sat down with her.

"So, how've you been?" He asked kindly, handing her the drink which she slugged gratefully.

The shouting stopped him from hearing her answer, and both of them ducked around to watch Cheryl storm past the window after her boyfriend.

"Have you fucking _seen this_?" She cried, and most of the available villagers were watching now: a fact of which Walker was awkwardly aware. He pulled a crying Cheryl through the deli door, sending Ste and Nancy a look that made the scuttle sharply – after collecting Nancy's children – out of the door.

"Well, I wonder what that was about?" Nancy breathed, interest lighting her eyes.

"Cheryl, darling, what is it?" Walker asked yet again, taking her shoulders roughly to stop her from spinning in distress.

Her brown eyes met his tearfully, beseeching him to fix the problem (and, damn it, he would!) though he didn't know what it was.

"What is it?" He repeated.

Cheryl took a deep breath and passed him the piece of paper crumpled tightly in her fist.

Hesitantly, Walker took it, and read.

He had to sit down, after.

"Well?" Cheryl barked at him, hands on her hips.

Walker swallowed down bile, clenching his eyes closed. His heart hammered in his chest angrily – frightened. How could he have forgotten?

How could _anyone_ forget a broken man on a beach, admitting something no one should ever have to admit? It was horrible – it had been horrible then and now that he remembered it was worse.

_My dad abused me_.

Brendan's voice – tiny – burst through the barriers he had perfected, lashing every bit of Walker.

Cheryl's dad had abused him.

He had never made the connection before: when he was 'close' to Brendan, he had never thought of Cheryl; now he was close to Cheryl he was not allowed to think of Brendan. He had never linked the two together – he had known all the facts, but he had never...

Walker lurched to the side, vomiting over the side of the sofa onto the floor.

"Walker." Cheryl, sounding repentant, dropped to her knees in front of him. "I shouldn't have sprung anything on you, I'm sorry. It's just-" and as she paused her regret was dissolved by the again rising anger "it's such _lies_. None of it's true! You've met my da, he would never..."

But he had, Walker knew.

She took his silence for agreement.

"I'll head up to Dublin as soon as possible – Nancy won't mind if I cancel, will she? – and can you come up, too? I need the support." She rattled of her plan, meandering away from him as she checked off the list: where they would go, what they would do, who they would see, who they _wouldn't_ see, how long it would take, what they would tell people...the list went on.

"Cheryl," Walker tried to begin, and she turned back to him.

_I think it might be true._

_I know it's true._

_Your dad, he..._

"I'll call work, and tell them it's an emergency," he promised with his heart in his throat.

Cheryl still had tears on her face. He would tell her – he _would_ – but after he'd spoken to Brendan, and when she was more ready to hear the truth.

* * *

Brendan dropped the letter onto his desk.

His fingers shook.

His vision suddenly slanted, and his head lolled back as he lost control of it.

His breaths came in ragged gasps that drew no air.

This could not be happening.

This could _not_ be happening.

It wasn't happening – simple as that. He'd misread the paper, it was addressed to the wrong person, this was someone else's problem, not his.

When he read it again, it was still there.

Oh, shit.

Oh, fuck.

What was he going to do?

Brendan retched into the bin, stumbling to the floor and gripping his stomach as pain – memories – lanced through him.

Thiscouldnotbehappeningthisc ouldnotbehappeningthiscouldn otbehappeningthiscouldnotbeh appeningthiscouldnot...

Darkness overcame him, and his body slumped.

* * *

"Is everything ok, Cheryl?" Ste asked as he mopped up the last of the vomit (couldn't they clean up their own mess?).

"It's fine, love." But she looked distracted, messing up her tight ringlets by brushing her hands through them too much, tears in her eyes, nails tapping the screen of her phone obsessively as she waited for it to call. A small bag lay at her feet and she stared out of the window angrily.

_Really_? Ste thought sarcastically, moving away from the obviously distressed woman.

"You know you can tell me anything," he reminded her when he came back, sliding an arm around her shoulder, "It's not like we haven't been through enough."

But at that moment – when he was sure she would crack and reveal all – a black cab slid to a halt outside and Walker appeared simultaneously outside the window, beckoning her urgently and leaning down with instructions for the cabbie.

Ste picked up her bag – in her rush for the door, she had forgotten it – and followed.

"Call me if you need anything," he ordered them, worried. They both ignored him, wrapped in their own worlds, though Walker accepted the bag.

"I'll see you, love," Cheryl hugged him, desperately he thought, and he felt a tear on his neck so he tightened his grip around her.

"You'll always have me," he told her quietly, ignoring Walker's impatient stare.

"It's my da," she whispered, and Ste's heart stopped slightly, "he's in trouble..."

That was all she said, but Ste's mind – filled with bias against father's – filled in the rest and he released her to Walker's care.

_He used to come in, drunk._

_Queer, poof._

_Knocked me around._

Brendan's words – so long ago – hung hauntingly in the air around him, and he raised a hand to wave farewell as the cab pulled smoothly away.

* * *

_Dublin City Criminal Court_

_In the case of Cillian Ciaran Brady vs Region of Dublin Court_

_To: _ _Miss Cheryl Brady_

_72, Mycroft Lane_

_Hollyoaks_

_Chester_

_This subpoena is an official notice that the above named party must appear in Court to testify as a witness:_

_Date: 28th October 2015_

_Time: 11:00_

_Event: Criminal trial of Cillian Ciaran Brady for alleged rape_

_Position: Defendant Witness_

_Location: Courtroom 2_

_ Criminal Courts of Justice_

_ Parkgate Street_

_ Dublin 8_

* * *

_Dublin City Criminal Court_

_In the case of Cillian Ciaran Brady vs Region of Dublin Court_

_To: Mr Brendan Brady_

_ No.32 Capel St._

_ Dublin 1_

_This subpoena is an official notice that the above names party must appear in Court to testify as a witness:_

_Date: 28th October 2015_

_Time: 11:00_

_Event: Criminal Trial of Cillian Ciaran Brady for alleged rape_

_Position: Prosecution Witness_

_Location: Courtroom 2_

_ Criminal Courts of Justice_

_ Parkgate Street_

_ Dublin 8_

* * *

**There's not much there, but it's all necessary material for where the story's going next! Please review! ~Meli**_  
_


	9. Chapter 9

**This chapter took a long time to write, because I couldn't do big chunks at a time. There's a part (at the beginning of the trial) with 'camera-shot' style writing, and I'd be interested to know what you think. As always: hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_The car pulls up, sleek and powerful, outside of the town-house. The purr of its engine slows, then stills, and immediately the front left hand door is flung open and the little girl jumps out. Her footsteps pound down the path, through the low iron gate separating them and the outside world, and between the two feet of paving that constitutes their garden; her voice – calling – is far ahead of her._

_Her little chubby hand reaches for the doorknob, but it opens before she gets there, and the short, thin woman – smoke curling hypnotising from the cigarette held in her stained fingers – wraps her thin robe around herself more tightly._

_Cheryl does not pause to talk to the woman – her brother's mother – but she moves more quietly as she passes, because she is slightly afraid – though she would never admit it to anyone. The woman makes no action to stop her: her eyes fix on Cheryl and Brendan's pa._

"_Brendan!" Cheryl squeals, flinging herself into her older brother's arms._

"_Chez!" Brendan acts surprised, though he must surely have heard her coming. His hands go to her tight golden curls, mussing them; hers wrap around his neck._

"_I've missed you!" She tells him, giggling a little – sparing little more than a glance at the work she has accidentally flung to the floor (maths is so boring, isn't it? But she could never do the type of maths her brother does anyway)._

_He snorts into her hair._

* * *

"Hi, Da," Cheryl greeted, when he opened the door slowly to her; he had aged in the time they'd been apart (when had they last seen each other? In her last visit, several months ago?) – he had proper salt and pepper hair, and there were lines around his eyes and a tiredness within them that she had never seen before.

"Cheryl," he said, and, weeping, she fell into his arms as though he was the one who ought to comfort her.

Ushering her inside, Mr Brady flicked the kettle on and settled the pair of them onto the sofa. After a few minutes she prised herself from his shoulder and sat back, tucking her legs underneath herself and surveying the older man with fear (though not for herself).

"How are you?" She asked softly, touching his face.

He didn't look at her: his eyes – blue and intense – locked onto the floor, his fingers played with the mug he cupped. But his thin lips pinched down in the corners, and that told her all she needed to know.

"Some people are just sick: no one with any sense believes it! You'll be acquitted in no time!" She promised him, squeezing his fingers.

He looked at her then, "How long are you here for?"

"As long as you need me."

He pulled her into him, kissing her forehead, "Oh, my perfect little girl. My little star." She smiled through her tears.

* * *

Brendan checked his phone screen again, just to make sure, as the cab pulled up outside the bar. It hadn't changed: _O'Brien's pub, 3:00_ still neatly typed. No signature, no subject; but Brendan knew what it was about and who it was.

The green awnings he had driven past so many times – but never entered – were still there, and he handed the cabbie a wad of money as he surveyed them with distaste. It was far too touristy for him: the real Dubliners, the born and bred type, knew better than this place.

But Walker, propped against the bar already with a drink – though Brendan himself was early – wasn't a born and bred Dubliner.

"Just water," Brendan barked to the barman – not attractive in the slightest – and leant beside Walker. The screen in the corner was trained on a football game, and a few rowdy students were crowded around it, making bets on the outcome. Brendan watched the money change hands apathetically.

"So?" He asked finally, when the Englishman failed to talk after several tense moments. His voice didn't shake, and he was slightly proud of himself for it.

Brendan could feel Walker's eyes on him in the half-lit pub: taking in his entire body. Not very much had changed – perhaps his hair was a little longer, a little messier now; and he wasn't wearing a suit, choosing instead a plush jumper, pushing its sleeves back over his forearms, and jeans.

"Do you ever think about that night?" Walker asked, unexpectedly; Brendan looked round at him in surprise.

Did he honestly bring that up?

Walker tipped his head in the direction of an empty booth – secluded in a back corner – and lead Brendan over to it. They sat opposite one another, Walker's elbows on the table and his fists keeping his head up, Brendan leant back into the comfort of the padded bench.

"Do you want me to apologise?" He countered Walker's question with his own. His heart thudded under his chest as – involuntarily – a series of images came back to him: the fight, Walker's body underneath his.

"No," Walker shook his head, "I'm long over it."

Was it Brendan's imagination that heard a taunt about Cheryl in that?

"And I don't mean that in an 'I'm-now-sleeping-with-your-sister' type way," Walker clarified. "I was just wondering."

In truth, Brendan _hadn't _thought of it in a long time. When he first found out about Walker after the explosion he had briefly entertained the idea that maybe it _had_ all been a lie, and he had decided that while his attraction to Brendan may have been surely he was still gay, because it would be crazy for a straight man to give himself up to such an act. And when he had found out about Cheryl and Walker… begrudgingly he had been a little impressed.

"Did you tell Cheryl?" Brendan asked now.

Walker shook his head no. Well, that would have been a little hard to explain.

"She doesn't like to talk about you."

Brendan flinched, and Walker looked apologetic, but he didn't recant it.

"What are you doing here, Walker?" Brendan leant forward now, predatory, "You're not just here for a little romantic stroll down memory lane…"

Walker smiled sardonically, "No, I'm afraid not."

He hesitated, and for the first time since he'd arrived Brendan felt the stirrings of alarm. He knew, of course he did, why Walker was there: how could he not? He knew because it had haunted his nightmares – growing more and more frequent since the arrival of the letter. He knew because there was no other reason why Walker would come to visit him.

It was the last thing that they had said to one another.

"It's about…the thing." Walker began awkwardly.

"What thing?" Brendan replied automatically. Walker shot him an unimpressed look.

"Your Dad, thing."

Brendan looked to his glass, wishing suddenly that it were something stronger.

Did you tell Cheryl? He wanted to ask.

Does she know?

Does _he _know?

What should I do?

He swallowed down his questions with a gulp of water, "What about it?"

He could feel Walker's eyes on him again, and when he looked up there was no hate in them – for the first time ever, Brendan realised.

"How are you feeling about it?" Walker asked softly.

Brendan snorted, "Who, me? Fine and dandy, as always; fit as a fecking fiddle."

Walker flinched, "Okay, so you don't want to tell me about it, I get it. I'm the psycho who tried to kill you." Brendan had to smirk at that, and it was all the encouragement Walker needed to press on, "But what should _I _do is what I want to know. Should I…tell Cheryl?"

Brendan shook his head profusely, "Never."

"She's been called up as a character witness." Walker warned him. "She's going to get on that stand and tell the world that he's a stand up man, that he wouldn't hurt a fly, that everyone who says otherwise is a liar and she would know because she's daddy's little girl. She's with him now! And all that time he's…he'll have…he _did it_." The last part was in a whisper. "Didn't he?"

Something in Brendan was hurting properly now: a deep ache of muscle where his heart had beaten too violently, the pain of a little boy pounding his fists inside of himself because he needed to hurt something; _anything_. His fingers were trembling on the table and he couldn't talk about this and why was Walker making him and it was such a long time ago and it was probably his fault anyway –

No.

Brendan cut himself off after that thought. That was too far – he had come too far from the point where he had believed that. His father was a monster, and nothing Brendan could have done could have stopped him.

"Did you read the articles on the victim?" He asked dryly.

Walker nodded, looking queasy, "A little boy – eight, wasn't he? There was a picture: slight, black hair, huge smile."

Just like you.

It hung in the air between them.

"Yes, he did it." Brendan said quietly.

The bustle of the pub seemed to have dimmed around them, so involved were they in the conversation. The tick of the clock passed without either noticing – the game was won (and lost), and one crowd left as another arrived, and still the two grown men in the corner sat in silence, attracting the odd look but more or less going undisturbed.

"What will you do?" Walker asked finally.

Brendan shrugged, "I've been subpoenaed." He revealed. "Against my Da." Walker looked surprised.

"They found out?" He asked, confused.

Brendan shook his head, "It's one thing to say nothing when it's just between you and him," he said quietly. "But when there's another little boy and you've got a chance to stop him from going through what happened to you?" He trailed off, lost in thought.

"You went to the police and volunteered." Walker surmised.

Brendan didn't have to nod.

Neither of them mentioned Cheryl, or Brendan's dad, or what Brendan was going to do or had done, again; but Walker stayed with the Irishman for several more hours, knowing somehow that he needed anyone just to sit beside.

* * *

The trial passed in a blur of consecutive moments: pictures taken almost as if with a camera they were so permanent.

_Click_

"Cilia Ciaran Brady, you have been charged with the rape of Jack Peter Kelly. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, Your Honour."

_Click_

"Cheryl Brady, how would you describe your relationship with your father?"

"Oh, my father and I got along really great. He was always treating me, always there for me when I needed it. He was a stand-up father; he _is _a stand-up father, and I'm his little princess."

_Click_

* * *

And then there were the longer moments – that could not be caught even if there were a video recorder in the room, because they were just a mess of emotions.

The prosecutor stood up, pacing across the distance to Cheryl. She raised her head defiantly, looking the man who would convict her father in the eyes, sure that nothing she could say would harm the case for him.

"Miss Brady – you say that you know your father well?" The woman smiled silkily at her.

Cheryl nodded, then remembered that everything must be said aloud and beat the judge to reminding her of it, "Yes."

"So, surely he would tell you everything?"

"Yes."

"So I suppose he told you that four months ago he was forcibly subjected into a rehabilitation centre for alcoholics?"

Cheryl froze. Her eyes slid to her father's, and he held them for a second before allowing his head to sink into his hands in despair.

"No, he never told me that. I didn't know." Cheryl admitted.

* * *

"Love, you did nothing wrong. You told the truth." Walker promised her, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

_Your Dad's a rapist_.

"What if he gets convicted, now?"

"I'm sure the truth will prevail."

_Your Dad's a rapist_.

"Did I mess everything up? Is it all over?"

_Your Dad's a rapist._

"Of course not."

* * *

Walker felt Cheryl's hand grip his much harder all of a sudden, and the eyes that he had clenched shut sprung open again.

"_What?_" Cheryl breathed, horror lacing the tones of her voice. She released her boyfriend's hand, pushing herself to the barrier so she was only centimetres from her father, though on the opposite side of the sheet of plastic. Both Bradys stared as Brendan mounted the podium – he didn't look in their direction, just sat stiffly.

Walker could hear the general commotion in the courtroom – people who had recognised Brendan's surname and were linking him up to the family tree: frenzied reporters suddenly on the edge of their seats, headlines flashing through their mind's eyes; the woman of an abused child who remembered suddenly the key part of their defence – a boy-come-man who had been there, done that.

A sister whose brother was testifying against their father.

A father whose son was about to tell about how he'd been raped – though Mr Brady was conspicuously devoid of emotion.

"What's he doing?" Cheryl gasped to Walker.

She didn't care or notice that he didn't answer: his voice was stuck in his terror ridden throat.

It had come.

"Could you state your name and address for the record, please." The prosecutor asked gently.

Walker could see that Brendan didn't like that: his eyes grew harder (if that was possible). That scared Walker the most, because if Brendan was able to grow angrier then his emotions were open for manipulation. There was a tiny chance that Cheryl could get through this if it was an in and out professional questioning; if Brendan reacted in any way at all everything would fall apart.

"Brendan Brady, Street, Dublin 1." Brendan said, his voice like honey over gravel.

"And what's your relationship with the defendant?"

Brendan flinched, "He's my father." But he didn't look in their direction.

"Brendan, what was your relationship like with your father growing up?" The woman asked.

Brendan breathed in deeply as the courtroom held its breath.

"Sometimes things were fine," Brendan admitted. "I never saw much of him, to be honest. I lived with my Ma in Dublin; he lived with my sister and her Ma in Belfast." There was a flutter of eyes in Cheryl's frozen direction – if he had not been about to admit his father's guilt in public, Walker would have been angry at him for that.

"And the when you did see him?"

Brendan shrugged, "He'd bring Cheryl up to visit, sometimes. That'd be fine because she'd always want entertaining. We'd go to the park or to the cinema or out for a meal. One of us always had to be around her because she didn't like my Ma."

Cheryl breathed in slightly – a little bit of confusion, a little bit of guilt crossed her face. She hadn't realised that Brendan had known that…she thought she'd hidden it better.

"What about when he came to visit without your sister?"

Brendan closed his eyes.

Seconds ticked on in the courtroom.

A juror tapped her pen on the desk, and stopped instantly as it echoed loudly around the room.

The judge cleared his throat, but not as a reminder to Brendan: they were all held in his thrall – on some level, they all knew what was coming.

Brendan opened his eyes.

* * *

Brendan opened his eyes, and a tear fell from Cheryl's as she really looked at her brother for what felt like the first time.

He looked…so small.

Afraid.

Determined.

Cheryl's heart beat louder in her chest; Walker's hand found hers and held onto her as though he knew that if he didn't she might disappear rather than be there right then.

What was he doing?

Why would he do this? What could he possibly have to say that would make him try to make their _father_ go to prison?

She had heard his mother and their dad talking once, late at night when they thought her and Brendan were asleep; she had come down for a drink.

"I don't want you to go out drinking." Deidra had said.

Their Dad had laughed – the hard laugh that he never did whilst Cheryl was around; the one that meant trouble, "When will you get it through your think skull, we're never getting back together!"

And Deidra had laughed like that, too, "Oh, I don't want you back _Cillian_." She sneered his name. "I just also don't want you drunk!"

"And why's that, eh?" Through the slight gap in the door she had watched him cross the room to stand in front of her, his face pulled up in a scowl.

"Because when you come back you hurt my boy." She said, softly, looking up at him with the same determination Brendan sometimes displayed.

Cillian laughed again, "I gave him a knock here and there when he deserved it, nothing more." And Cheryl left, because she couldn't bear to hear anything more.

Now in the courtroom: surely Brendan did not think that a few little disciplinary slaps when they were younger made their father a rapist? Just because he hadn't enjoyed the fairy-tale childhood she had, he couldn't do this…

She wished he would meet her eyes as he opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

Brendan opened his eyes and saw nothing.

He didn't see the jurors looking at him expectantly; he didn't see Walker look at him with pity; he didn't see the mother who thought he may be her son's salvation; he didn't see the journalists, pens poised; he didn't see Cheryl.

He saw nothing; or at least nothing that anyone else could see.

He saw a little boy, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by his mother's smoke and waiting in terror for his father's car to drive up outside.

He saw a little boy, flinching away from the touch of anyone because just the night before he had been visited.

He saw a boy, a teenager, beginning to realise that it wasn't girls he wanted; and remembering every single moment of his torture.

He saw a man lying on the ground, bleeding, looking up at him with hurt eyes and wondering why; himself standing above, the slight ache to his knuckles not making him forget.

He saw the dead.

In the moments before he spoke, Brendan saw himself through the ages: from the actual occurrences to the ripples exploding outwards. And he saw Stephen. And he _felt_; everything that he'd succeeded in running away from had caught up to him.

He looked at his father…and he hated him.

Cillian smiled.

"When my Da came to visit without my sister," Brendan began. "He would rape me."

* * *

_The car pulls up, sleek and powerful, outside of the town-house. The purr of its engine slows, then stills, and immediately the front left hand door is flung open and the little girl jumps out. Her footsteps pound down the path, through the low iron gate separating them and the outside world, and between the two feet of paving that constitutes their garden; her voice – calling – is far ahead of her._

_Her little chubby hand reaches for the doorknob, but it opens before she gets there, and the short, thin woman – smoke curling hypnotising from the cigarette held in her stained fingers – wraps her thin robe around herself more tightly._

_Cheryl does not pause to talk to the woman – her brother's mother – but she moves more quietly as she passes, because she is slightly afraid – though she would never admit it to anyone. The woman makes no action to stop her: her eyes fix on Cheryl and Brendan's pa._

"_Brendan!" Cheryl squeals, flinging herself into her older brother's arms._

"_Chez!" Brendan acts surprised, though he must surely have heard her coming. His hands go to her tight golden curls, mussing them; hers wrap around his neck._

"_I've missed you!" She tells him, giggling a little – sparing little more than a glance at the work she has accidentally flung to the floor (maths is so boring, isn't it? But she could never do the type of maths her brother does anyway)._

_He snorts into her hair._

"_How are you?" Cheryl asks him eventually, pulling away to study her brother's face. He has bags under his eyes – why do they call them that, anyway? – but he looks to be ok._

"_Fit as a fiddle," Brendan teases, "How about you?"_

_Cheryl chatters on, telling him about how Aoife was going out with Dexter, but everyone knew that Dexter really liked Lynsey; and that Lynsey was top in their class in science but Cheryl was better at drama, and she liked drama more anyway. She tells him about how her mum has taken up yoga, and their dad has a new job – which he already knows – and that she really does miss him._

"_Can we come back soon, Da?" She asks, turning to face the figure that enters the room._

"_Don't you have school?" He teases her gently, opening the window to get rid of the smoke._

"_But when you next come back, can I?" She begs, smiling brilliantly. Brendan stoops to pick his work off the floor, setting it back on the table._

"_I'm coming back next weekend," Cillian says. "Alone." He lays a beefy hand on his son's shoulder, and a sighing Cheryl turns away._

_She doesn't see her father smile, and her brother close his eyes._

* * *

**There you are! It's all out, now! Dun dun duuun. Reviews are always loved, thankyou for reading! ~Meli**


	10. Chapter 10

**Another shorter chapter, but it just felt strange trying to prolong the ending to this one: this seemed like a more natural cut off point! This was a hard one to write, so I hope I did it well: and I hope you enjoy it, as always!**

* * *

The sun was shining brightly when the judge walked into the courtroom on the closing day of the trial. It filtered through the modern windows, alighting briefly on everyone's faces though their expressions did not betray it. It bestowed itself upon everyone equally and impartially: from the victim to the alleged criminal. It was fair and just.

The people waiting outside for the court to open and the proceedings to begin were a medley bunch. The most senior among them was an old woman, almost ninety, who walked with the aid of a stick and had no smile left in her, there simply because she had followed the story on the news and had a vague recollection of a boy who lived not far from her, and his father; the youngest was a three year old girl.

When they were finally allowed in they marched in silently.

The jurors didn't take long after that: all sombre expressions and hooded eyes.

Mr Cillian Ciaran Brady was called in.

He was an odd looking man: past his prime, but still attractive; black hair speckled with silver, eyes so blue and so intense they appeared almost out of place, thin lips and clean shaven. He carried himself proudly, chin jutted forwards, and he met the eyes of the mother of the boy he'd raped. He didn't smile – it wasn't too late for the jurors to be swayed, after all – but she felt it deep inside and hated him.

As one, they rose.

"Jurors," the judge boomed, "have you reached a verdict?"

The door creaked open – the little girl looked around – and Cheryl slipped inside. She wore a deep grey suit, buttoned over her open necked cream blouse; her hair was scraped back and she wore no jewellery and no makeup. The bags under her eyes spoke of a sleepless night, though in fact she had slept, if fitfully. She didn't take a seat: she stood at the door, fingers clasped around the clutch she carried, and her wide eyes searched for her father.

Either way, she was losing a family member today.

"We have, your Honour." The foreman rose.

The courtroom sighed.

"Guilty."

There was a moment of complete stillness – the calm before the storm. Perhaps in all situations there is just a split second of complete selflessness; perhaps right then Cheryl was relieved for the sake of the child, the child happy that the mother was avenged, the mother sympathetic for the plight of the daughter.

But, even if that were the case, it only takes one man and one action to ruin everything.

Brady began to laugh.

"You _bastard_!" The woman forgot her children – she lunged for the rapist, thirsting for his blood. Tears spilt from her cheeks, rushing over them, leaking from her the way she wished the pain would.

Cheryl, also crying, left.

* * *

"You don't have to do this," Walker reminded her, as they surveyed the apartment block together. It wasn't particularly large, yet it was fairly imposing: sleek lines, all windows. And it towered above them right then because _they knew what was inside_.

"I just…" Cheryl tried to explain.

But what was there to say?

I just need to talk to the brother I haven't spoken to in three years?

I just need to apologise to him for abandoning him?

I just need to apologise to him for never noticing?

I just need to thank him for protecting me?

She needed to do all of them, if she was honest. There was no _just _about it.

"It's never going to be easy." Walker pointed out comfortingly, his face a little pale but his eyes intent upon hers.

"But it's so _fresh_ right now." Was it only that morning that it had been announced?

Walker didn't reply, and Cheryl turned her cow eyes on him. He was sitting with his head bent over the steering wheel, face pinched in misery and horror. He looked tired, and he looked sad, and he looked frightened.

"Thank you," Cheryl murmured, taking his hand gently.

He turned to her, confusion battling – losing – for domination with the emotions playing inside of him, "What for?"

Cheryl shrugged, "The past three years?" She offered. "The past three weeks in particular. I just feel like since I opened that letter you're the only thing that's stayed the same, you know?"

He smiled without hope, "I love you, Cheryl."

She pressed her lips to his, "I love you, too."

* * *

Brendan stared at the ceiling.

It had never looked so…unrestrictive. Funny, how one moment it could be cumbersome and a hindrance, and the next – _guilty_ – it was just a meaningless, surmountable barrier.

_Guilty_.

He didn't much like the colour of it: he'd never noticed it before, but it was quite an ugly shade of white – not quite right (_guilty_) and it threw off the entire rest of the room.

_Guilty_.

Maybe he'd get it painted.

_Guilty_.

Maybe he'd paint it himself.

_Guilty_.

Brendan threw up violently over the side of the sofa, into the waiting dish lying on the floor neatly. His vomit splattered, but mercifully remained inside the container, and, when his stomach stopped churning and his fingers stopped shaking, he slung his legs off the side and stood. He crouched, picked up the tray, and took it to the bathroom, where he flushed the mess down the toilet and rinsed the dish out for the fifth time in as many hours.

He had to fight the urge to get in the shower.

Some things never rubbed clean.

The bell at the front sounded, and Brendan looked towards it automatically, creating a mental checklist about who could possibly be at the door: it wouldn't be Declan or Padraig, because they were in school; it wouldn't be Eileen, because it wouldn't be Eileen; it wouldn't be his Ma, she was in Limerick; it wouldn't be his Da – ever again.

Never again.

Never again would his Pa ring that doorbell; never again would his feet cross that threshold; never his eyes touch what was Brendan's; never his touch. He was gone.

And Brendan was still scared – in the safety of his home, Brendan could admit that he was still terrified. But at least now he had no reason to be.

"Hello?" He asked, voice croaky, without realising he'd reached the receiver.

"It's me." Walker replied, calm and concise and sounding a little angry.

Of bloody course.

Shouldn't he be comforting Cheryl? (He _didn't _think of Steven when he thought that).

Brendan buzzed him up, and opened the door. How did he know where Brendan lived, anyway?

The paint was smudged in the ceiling over there. _Guilty_.

Brendan walked to his window overlooking the river, looking down at the people rushing about their lives far below him, watching the world pass by him; it was nothing new, it had been doing so for years.

"This is becoming a habit of yours." He commented, after the door slid smoothly wider, gliding over his carpet – it didn't match the ceiling, perhaps that was what was wrong.

Walker didn't answer, but Brendan was past the point of caring: he leant his head against the glass, closing his eyes. After a minute, the cold was becoming painful, and he could feel the thud of his heart staccato in his forehead where it met the frigid material. His mouth pinched down in the corners.

"Seriously, Walker, what-" Brendan froze mid turn, his stunned gaze fixed upon his motionless, awkward visitor.

"Hi." Cheryl said quietly.

Brendan stared at her. It felt like an age since he'd last seen her: in the village when he went to Joel's wedding, of course, but that hadn't been his Cheryl, his little Chez who lit up his day. That was the cold woman who'd replaced her – and him. Not that he blamed her. But here she was: serene colours coating her and eyes cast to the floor.

Still not his Cheryl.

"Hi," Brendan greeted.

Cheryl's eyes met Brendan's.

"Hi." She said, again.

"Hi," Brendan repeated.

They watched each other for a moment more and, just as Brendan was going to ask - again, though he would change the name this time – what she wanted, Cheryl Brady opened her mouth to talk, eyes closed rather than meet his. Brendan let her go first.

"Hi." Cheryl said.

"Oh, for Lord's sake, Chez!" Brendan burst out, rolling his eyes, "Really?"

Cheryl's eyes flew open, surprised, though not more than he was.

"Sorry!" He murmured, shocked at himself, "I don't know…" What came over him.

Cheryl shook her head, "It's fine, I was being stupid."

Conversation, if it could be called that, tapered off.

"Would you like a drink?" Brendan offered, tugging at a lock of hair behind his ear and gesturing with the other hand toward the kitchen end of his open area.

Relief spread across Cheryl's face like wildfire, "Oh, I'd adore some wine, please!"

Brendan winced, "I don't keep alcohol in the house." He told her.

He hadn't for nearly three years, but there was no point telling her that; it was a little early in the day to remind both of them that they hadn't spoken in that long.

Cheryl was surprised, again, "Really?" Brendan shook his head. "Oh, well then a coffee, please."

Nodding, Brendan headed over. He picked up the kettle, filled it, turned it on, and prepared her mug the way she liked it. His fingers bounded across the surfaces, jittering nervously as he waited for the water to boil. Behind him he could hear Cheryl moving around slowly and – when he risked a sneaky glance backwards – he saw she had moved to the bookcase, picking up a photo of Declan and Padraig and smiling at it in a way he thought was nostalgic.

"Here you are!" Brendan called her attention back to him, and she put the picture down sharply and headed fast in his direction. She took the cup, and they were both careful to avoid touching.

"Thanks," she muttered, backing away again.

Brendan retreated back to his window, sitting faux-casually upon a bar stool situated there and watching her pretend to be inspecting his accommodation.

"It's a nice place," she said, when she could stare at the ceiling no longer.

"Why are you here?" He countered.

Cheryl's eyes closed, and Brendan instantly regretted the harshness of his tone, "Jesus, Chez, I'm sorry."

She looked at him.

Continuing, "For…for you having to find out: like this, and at all! It wasn't fair on-"

"Don't you dare!" Cheryl set down her mug, turning her back to him and clenching both fists upon the countertop.

He looked at her in alarm, "Chez?"

Her back shook slightly, "Don't you _dare_ say that this wasn't fair."

Brendan swallowed, "It _wasn't_ Chez. You didn't deserve to lose your father because of me."

Cheryl whirled around, "And you didn't deserve to get raped, Brendan." He dropped the water he was holding, and it spooled over the carpet dramatically. Neither of them moved to pick it up, frozen in place the by the mix of emotions coursing through the room. "You didn't deserve to lose your childhood, to lose your parents; you didn't deserve to hate yourself, or to hate being gay, or to hate Steven. You didn't deserve to have a stupid little sister who couldn't see-"

Brendan caught her as she collapsed, sinking onto the floor with her sobbing into his shoulder, clutching around his back. He pressed a kiss into her hair. "You can't blame yourself, Chez. It doesn't get anyone anywhere."

Her sobs increased in pitch and frequency, damp soaking through to his skin and raising the hair on the back of his neck.

This is what he'd done to her: this was all because of him, causing trouble for the whole family.

No.

Brendan reminded himself.

This was because of their Da – if he could even be called that. He was a sick, twisted man; he had ruined Brendan, and now he was killing Cheryl. Brendan would never forgive him, and he would never forget.

"I'm so sorry!" Cheryl hiccupped, pulling back to stare into her brother's face. "I know it doesn't change anything, but I am _so sorry_ for what happened to you."

Brendan thought about holding it against her.

He thought about pushing away, standing up and telling her in excruciating detail exactly what she didn't know: the way his touch had been against Brendan's skin, the way after the first ten times Brendan had stopped crying, the way that the bastard used Cheryl as an incentive to not say anything to anyone – if he couldn't hurt Brendan, he'd hurt his little girl instead. He thought about telling her she'd helped ruin his life.

She had, in a way.

And it still hurt, every second of every day.

But Brendan was tired: he was so, _so _tired of fighting this. He just wanted to give up – to accept it all. To let go of it.

The truth was, Brendan had been raped by his father.

And Brendan couldn't have done anything about it, and Cheryl couldn't have done anything about it, and their Nana couldn't have done anything about it.

Brendan had been raped, and that was all there was to it.

"I love you," Brendan told his sister, honestly.

Cheryl smiled tremulously, her eyes full of pain, "I love you Brendan."

And when she pressed her cheek to his, Brendan began to understand: yes, he could blame Cheryl. _Or_ he could let her help him.

* * *

A black taxi pulled up outside the deli smoothly. The sun was as hidden as the passengers inside it; a pigeon landed on the roof. Inside the deli, people pretended not to watch.

It had gotten around, as it always did, but no one knew how (Cheryl told Joel, who told Theresa, who told her family, who told the world). People had been flocking into the deli all day to catch a glimpse of the rapist's daughter, and the son. Ste had served them all sniffily, detesting their selfish indifference to the Bradys' plight, but recognising that life went on.

Now, he abruptly stopped trying to usher customers out of the door once they had purchased: he would rather they stood behind the meagre cover of the window and stare rather than out on the street.

"Do you think it's true that she didn't know?" A teenager asked, his spot-riddled face twisted in brutal glee at the thought of such horrific scandal.

"Please, she must have at least suspected!" The gothic girl beside him chipped in, craning her neck as she waited for one of them to leave the safety of the vehicle.

"Oi, right!" Ste cut in, furious on Cheryl's behalf. "I happen to know them, me, and Cheryl would never have let anything like that continue!"

The teenagers swarmed around him eagerly, and too late Ste realised he'd given them the little food they needed to fire their imaginations.

"Could you tell?" One of them asked.

"Were they a little bit weird?" Went another.

"Did they take after the Dad?" Spotty remarked, and it was this final comment that caused Ste to snap.

"Look, you don't have a clue what you're talking about! Them there are decent people, and you should keep your stupid, gossiping noses out of their business because they don't deserve a word of it, ok!" He slapped his hand down on the counter, watching the giggling teens leave hurriedly – one of them turned back to swear at him – with mounting frustration.

"God's sake!" He snapped.

"Just ignore them, boss." Tom counselled wisely from the back. Ste shot him a look through the wall: a you're-a-teenager-too-so-go-and-die look.

Then Cheryl got out of the car, and Ste promptly forgot the details of the past few minutes.

She did not look well. Oh, perhaps the ordinary person – say, a group of four stupid teenagers – wouldn't have noticed, but the colours she was wearing were far too co-ordinated for Cheryl to wear without something being wrong.

"Shit," Ste muttered, and darted for the door.

Once there, he hesitated inside of the threshold, watching her through the window as she bent to pay the cabbie and let it drive away. She stood on the pavement, a splash of purple on a dreary day, towering in her four inch heels, make-up perfect. She was conspicuously alone.

Cheryl pulled her jacket tighter around her, raised her chin – Ste would bet at those teenagers – and turned, promptly tripping over the step near the phone booth.

She didn't fall – instead her hand flew out to catch herself against the wall and she laughed shakily with relief. Ste smiled, too: until she began to cry.

The birds cartwheeled in the sky, and Tom washed dishes noisily behind Ste, Kathleen Angel ran past giggling, Ste's phone began to ring.

Ste flung open the door, and in three steps was beside his bubbly blonde, weeping friend, wrapping his arms around her bigger frame tightly and pressing her head into his shoulder.

"Oh, love!" Nancy sighed, reaching them not long after, rubbing Cheryl's back comfortingly.

"Come inside!" Theresa insisted, as Annalise stooped to gather Cheryl's belongings.

The blonde detached herself from Ste and looked around at them all: at Tony, holding open the deli door and Tom standing there with a steaming hot chocolate.

Ste kissed her cheek, "Welcome home."

* * *

**There you are: quite emotional to write, the next chapter should be much lighter (well, I say 'much'...) Please review! ~Meli**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hiyas! Sorry it's been ages: it's no excuse but I was just too emotionally damaged from the episodes of the last few days to write any more. I can barely even remember what's on this because every time I try to think of the characters I just see Ste in hospital and Brendan's expression *sighs* *bursts into tears* *has a heart attack and dies*.**

* * *

It didn't take long to get the entire story out: the day's in Dublin by her father's side, the torture of the trial, the way the jury found her Da guilty. Tears chugged lethargically down her face, taking her makeup with it, but no one commented as they listened intently; she smiled, frowned, wept alternately, as caught up in her tale as she had been at the time it happened.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Cheryl!" Annalise hugged her tightly, kissing Cheryl's cheek softly.

"There are always appeals, right?" Tony tried to rally, a stupid grin fixed in place as his eyes flickered uncertainly.

Cheryl looked up at him, "The man deserves to rot in hell."

There was a stretch of awkwardness as a name filled the room, unspoken so far but in all of their minds. Cheryl swallowed, looking down into her hands.

"I don't want to talk about Brendan, if you don't mind," she whispered, lip trembling.

"Of course!" Nancy agreed, nodding vigorously.

"Absolutely!" Theresa joined.

"Brendan who?" Tony asked, pouring more coffee.

Cheryl smiled slightly, and Ste watched her with a heavy heart. It sliced through him – this pain that his friend was going through. What she must be feeling right now: her own _father_ had... And to her _brother_. And Cheryl would probably never see her Da again, and who knows if she even wanted to see her brother and she must feel all alone and the newspaper said that her mother (still her father's wife) hadn't even gone to the trial.

And imagine being the other woman: the one whose child the whole trial was about. Imagine if that _happened_ to someone you were that close to, someone who you would protect forever. How she must have hated Cheryl as she sat there and sung her father's praises. How she must have pitied the man who had lived with the secret his whole life; pitied...and hated, because if he had just said something maybe this would never have happened.

And imagine being Brendan.

Ste's heart _ached_ for Brendan.

Cheryl's eyes met Ste's, and perhaps they read a little of the sympathy in them because she smiled at him ever so slightly and incredibly gratefully.

"Anyways," Ste got to his feet, "I've got a shop to close up..." he looked around at them meaningfully, and they all leapt to their feet, taking dishes and mugs to the kitchen and making excuses of things they were late for. One by one, they rushed from the vicinity and, when the door finally clicked behind them, Ste and Cheryl slumped together on the sofa.

Ste unwound the tie holding the blinds above the window, and they fell with a muffled thump.

"Oh, Ste," Cheryl buried her head in his neck.

Ste wrapped his arms around her, soothing her but unable to say anything. What was there to say? He hummed a song he knew she liked, rubbed circled into her back and let her ruin the collar of his uniform with her tears, kissing her cheek.

* * *

The phone had been ringing all morning.

It went straight through Brendan, lodging in the back of his heart painfully, constricting his breathing.

Now, an unknown number was flashing up on the recognition tab, and he watched it apathetically. A Dublin number, he knew; most likely a newspaper.

He didn't want to talk to them.

He didn't want to _think_.

The number and the ringing died, but the silence was as suffocating as the noise and he clenched his eyes against it. Why couldn't it all just stop?

Brendan's fingers trembled, and abruptly he threw his legs off the side of the bed and dropped his elbows onto his knees. His fingers curled into awkward claws. He swallowed, perhaps a few times too many.

When the phone called, he jumped.

Eileen.

Oh, he should speak to Eileen. He should definitely talk to Eileen because the newspaper telling the entire story in gruesome detail would be out by now and she would know everything; and she had to decide what to tell the kids.

Declan had probably already seen it.

But there was hope for Padraig. Small and skinny, cleverer than anyone, sassy Padraig, who lifted Brendan's world with a smile and didn't deserve a father like Brendan was.

He didn't want to talk to Eileen. He could imagine what she would say: first, the inevitable that she couldn't believe it and she was so sorry and Cillian would be punished by God. Second: if that was what made him gay.

He knew she would ask. _He _would ask, if he were in her position: bloody hell, the poor woman found out that her husband had an affair, was gay, and was...abused by his father – all in the space of five years, give or take a couple of months. It was ridiculous, the kind of thing that happened in soaps to fictional characters, not him and her.

She wouldn't like the answer.

Eileen was... Well, Eileen was Catholic. She was raised a Catholic, she practiced the religion and she believed in its teachings. And Eileen, while clever and witty and thoughtful, was a little _too_ organised to think for herself about how certain teachings should be viewed. For her, for many, homosexuality was a sin: she couldn't wrap her head around Brendan's acceptance of it. Oh, she didn't blame him – they had talked about it (he owed her that, at least) too often for her to be able to convince herself that he chose this path, she had seen firsthand what his hatred of it was like. But she was always looking for something else to blame, and Brendan knew that his father would be the new scapegoat.

But it wasn't like that.

Rape or no rape, Brendan was always going to be gay.

"Hello?" Brendan picked up the phone wearily, rubbing his eyebrows, tugging at his hair. His voice was hoarse, but discernible.

"Brendan!" Eileen screeched, causing him to wince.

"Eileen." He replied calmly, quietly (as if to show her how volume could be controlled).

"Brendan, I've been going out of my mind!" Eileen chattered away. "Where are you?"

Brendan glanced at the window, blinds drawn to stop the photographer's outside getting pictures of him sneakily, "At home."

He could hear her swallow - a sure sign that she was near tears.

"Are you going back to England?" She asked quietly.

Brendan frowned: of all questions, he had not expected that one. "Yes." He answered honestly.

"So you spoke to Cheryl," Eileen surmised intelligently.

"That's right." Brendan agreed. "We're over our differences."

Eileen scoffed down the line, "Well I should think so!"

Brendan tensed, cutting her off, "Eileen, don't blame Chez. It wasn't her fault and there would have been nothing she could have done if she had known."

Eileen's fury echoed down the line, and Brendan could picture her face as she tried to wrangle a sentence that did not blame his little sister; the image made him smile to himself slightly, bitterly: he knew her so well – that was another ripple of what happened, wasn't it?

"When are you leaving?" She asked finally.

"Tomorrow, I think," Brendan guessed. He hadn't booked a flight – he hadn't even checked the website – and he didn't feel like taking a ferry, as he normally would. "I just have some things to sort out here, first."

"What should I tell the boys?" Eileen asked quietly.

There was so much weight to the question that it brought tears to Brendan's eyes. That was the question asked the first time he left home: when it had been for work alone. That was the question when he wouldn't be there for Christmas, that one time. That was the question when he got arrested in Liverpool. That was the question when he told her that he wasn't coming back from Hollyoaks for a while, that they were over. That was the question when he was charged with murder. That was the question when he was back, but him and Cheryl couldn't even be spoken about.

Because for God's sake, how was Brendan meant to explain anything? How could _he _tell them, enough to satisfy their curiosity but protect the fragility of their innocence? Brendan had never been good with words.

"Actually, can I see them tonight?" Brendan asked, quietly.

Eileen didn't answer for a second, and Brendan closed his eyes like that might help the sting of rejection and dismissal.

"Brendan," Eileen murmured. "You are their father. You are far from perfect and entirely unwilling to try to be it; but you are their father and you love them. Of bloody course you can see them."

Brendan laughed throatily: with relief and, more shallowly, because that was the first time he had heard Eileen swear ever.

* * *

"He just," Cheryl said into her mug, having detacher herself from Ste to have another coffee, "he looked so _small_." Her smile trembled, "He was the biggest person in the room and he was just..." She swallowed.

"He played with his fingers. And his lips pinched down. And he was just sitting there, with his shoulders hunched over and he looked so _small_."

Ste patted her shoulder: he could imagine it all too easily. That was the funny people about people who were larger than life – once they were broken, they were the most broken of all.

He was the first person Brendan saw when he entered the room: like a magnet, Brendan's eyes were drawn to the figure sitting in the booth, smiling sweetly.

"Brendan," Cillian greeted warmly, fingers nestling the glass between them, as Brendan lifted the phone on his side.

Brendan smiled back, ducking his head, "Hi, Da."

Cillian leant backwards, the hard planes of his body hidden by the expanse of material, garishly orange, "They won't let me have my cigarettes, Brendan."

"Oh no." Brendan deadpanned, and Cillian chuckled.

"Okay, I deserved that." He held up his hands in mock surrender, winking at his son.

Brendan surveyed his father – the features that he wished he could banish from his mind, the feeling of lips on his skin crawling over him. Cillian looked thinner than he ever had done – his cheekbones jutting archly, his eyebrows dark and hanging over his eyes, casting shadows there that emphasised the obvious lack of sleep. He was clean shaven as always, though.

"Like what you see?" Cillian asked, and Brendan knew it wasn't a joke.

"You disgust me," he replied honestly, without inflection.

Cillian smirked, "You filthy little queer." Like a switch had been flicked, the cute, sweet man was gone and the monster was revealed. "You loved every second of it, I know."

Brendan's jaw twitched with the effort not to rise to it, and he kept in the hateful remark he could have made.

Cillian continued regardless, "Gave you a bit of a taste for it, didn't I? Men. Disgusting queers like you, you _wanted_ me to."

The man's poisonous words ran off and he sat back, chest heaving and eyes violently aglow, teeth bared.

Brendan stared back impassively.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" Cillian taunted. "Hit it bang on the nail did I?"

Brendan opened his mouth, "I came because I have to tell you something." Cillian gestured for him to continue scornfully.

"I don't forgive you," Brendan said simply. "I don't forgive you and I never will."

Surprise flashed briefly over Cillian's handsome face before it twisted back into hatred, "What should you have to forgive me for? You were begging for it."

Brendan shook his head meekly, "But _why_?"

He hadn't wanted to ask. He had wanted to not ask. He had promised himself that, no matter what Cillian said, he wouldn't ask. Yet here he was: asking.

He _had_ to know: what made a man look at his son and see him in that way? Or was it just that he felt Brendan had to be punished – but who would punish a child, any child never mind your own, that way?

Remorse flickered behind Cillian's suddenly downcast eyes, his fidgeting ceased gently, his brows puckered into a slight fall and when he spoke his voice was full of regret and shame, "Brendan..."

Brendan couldn't help himself – he leant in. All his dreams were about to be answered, every question he had cried to himself in his dreams were about to be fulfilled, finally and also at last he would understand.

"You. Wanted. It." Cillian growled out, and pain spiked through Brendan's childish heart; a fresh would.

Cillian laughed at his hurt; laughed at the knowledge that even in his position at the bottom of the power chain he still could wield control over Brendan.

"I'm going now," Brendan told him, voice quiet. "I'm never coming back, but I'll leave you with this: never contact me again. Never contact Cheryl. Never contact my Ma, or Cheryl's Ma, or my boys or Eileen. Never talk to anyone I know ever again."

"Does it ever tempt you?" Cillian cut in, expanding before Brendan could voice his confusion, "Your boys? Declan's a bit old now, I suppose, but Padraig would..."

"_Shut up_." Brendan snarled ferociously, hands clenched around the phone and fury echoing through his entire being. "Shut _up_." His hands shook with the effort not to pound on the glass. A concerned guard strolled closer to them. Cillian smiled, but there was regret in his eyes because he could understand Brendan's answer as a definitive 'no'.

"How will you stop me talking to them?" He asked, rather than push it – Cillian was a monster, for sure, but he was clever enough to know when to drop that particular line of questioning.

Brendan's heart was still pounding, his teeth still knocking together angrily; for the first time since it all began, he looked his father directly in the eye, "I didn't tell them everything in court. You know that. I did it for Cheryl's sake, but if you _ever_ so much as cross my mind for too long again, every gory detail will be spilt and you'll never see the outside of this hellhole." He got to his feet.

"Brendan," his father pleaded, and Brendan looked back for a final time.

"I'm sorry," Cillian wept, tears forming in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks quickly. "I just...I knew you were gay, see? And I had to do something to stop it. You understand, don't you?" He spread his free hand against the glass beseechingly.

Brendan walked away.

* * *

"And I went back to his house," Cheryl continued, after her break to eat several slices of toast and jam – with seeds – "And he was in grungy clothes and with ungelled hair and he was so lost. And then, oh, God, he apologised to _me_!" Cheryl looked at Ste beseechingly, but he missed his cue to come in with a comforting line because his eyes were screwed tight shut.

Oh, bloody hell.

Ste wanted to kill their Dad. He wanted to kill their Dad so much – and he had never imagined he could hate someone more than he hated Terry, but here he was and he knew that if he had the choice between having to live with one of them for the rest of his life and the other going to hell it would be his own step-dad he kept by his side. Oh, God, he wished he could stop imagining.

"So I told him that I was sorry, and that he hadn't deserved any of it and then I was crying and he was crying and we were just hugging and..." Cheryl took a deep breath.

Ste cracked a small smile, because it seemed appropriate although he actually didn't know what she'd just said. Cheryl smiled back, so that was something good.

"So now we're all good." Cheryl finished. "He should be coming here sometime soon."

Ste's head whipped up, "Here? To Hollyoaks?"

Cheryl nodded absently, "Don't mind, do you love? Walker's spent the day packing his things: Brendan had to sort out his businesses."

Mutely Ste shook his head no.

Cheryl was satisfied.

Yes, of bloody course Ste minded.

* * *

The path to the door was ever so familiar to Brendan: the scent of jasmine filled him, bittersweet; the rough wooden kissing gate under his palm; the smooth cool of them bell: a luxury he hadn't had in his own home. The sky was still overcast, and that contrasted with what he remembered.

It began to drizzle as he waited, seconds passing instantly like hours, watching the birds circle above his car nervously.

When Maggie opened the door he wasn't sure it was her: she looked...well, she looked like his Ma.

Incredibly like his Ma, actually, and perhaps he should have gone to see her first but he wasn't sure if he could handle both parents without a break in the middle.

"Hello, Brendan," Maggie managed a wispy smile. Her lipstick was vibrant, but it wobbled outside of the edge she'd marked out conspicuously; her hair was greasy, pulled into a bun severely that drooped to the nape of her neck; her fingernails were chipped, and she was wearing slippers.

"Hello, Maggie," Brendan muttered, stepping over the threshold into her house.

They pottered awkwardly around one another for a few minutes – Maggie made tea and Brendan inspected the photos. Well, he inspected the photos until he reached the first one containing his father, and then he went to sit down, feeling a little ill.

"Why are you here?" Maggie asked as she passed him his mug – she was one of those people who, unlike Brendan, drank tea from those great clutzy things. That was a nice difference from his Ma, at least: directness.

"To talk to you about him." Brendan gifted her with the same forthright attitude, and he caught the glimmer of a smile as she began to cry.

"I'm sorry, Brendan," Maggie shrugged helplessly, "I didn't know."

Brendan waved her regrets away, "I'm not here to blame you, Maggie."

But Maggie didn't hear him, "If I had just been a more caring wife, just given him what he wanted..." Her voice trailed off into silent pleas of absolution.

Brendan couldn't give them.

"If there's anything I can do to help you," he offered instead.

Cheryl's Ma grimaced, "You could look after Cheryl?" She asked quietly, well aware of the tense relationship between the siblings.

"I am," Brendan took a sip of tea – too much sugar – and felt the slight stirring of proud contentment. He had Chez back: his Chez. That counted for a hell of a lot.

* * *

Ste sat on the kerb and waited. Cheryl was passed out upstairs – courtesy of some lovely Russian vodka he had bought from Price Slice – and he wasn't worried about taking care of her in that state; the steps were simply too far away.

The young man who passed a pebble between his feet was, in many ways, unremarkable. He owned a small business that did reasonably well; he was single, but had two children; he hadn't completed his schooling and had bad qualifications; he was dyslexic; he had a criminal record, though he had been free of even the guilt of crime for many years now; he had just reached his twenty sixth birthday; his hair was slightly too long, falling into his eyes – he'd been too distracted to remember to go to the hairdressers, and previous experiences had taught him not to do it himself; he did have gorgeous, golden skin, and two tattoo's, though neither were visible; he had all his own teeth.

On paper, Steven Hay was unremarkable: and it was on this thought that his mind dwelled as he waited for Brendan to arrive.

He didn't know why Brendan had chosen him. He had never asked. Was it just because he was Brendan's type (he was) or was it because it'd just been a while since his last and he thought Ste looked alright (he did)?

Because look at them: on paper, Brendan Brady was completely _incredible_. He had raised himself after his father left his mother; he had been raped by his father and lived to tell the tale; he had given Ste £80,000; he had two children who adored him; he had several successful businesses. (Of course, the more logical part of Ste's part mused, on paper, Brendan Brady's only criminal record was that of a false accusation four years prior).

Didn't the saying go: opposites attract?

Well, there was a fair-to-unbelievable amount of attraction there - that was true. Oh, the way Ste had lusted after those big arms, those blue eyes, the feel of the hard planes of Brendan's stomach against his, the harsh stubble of his moustache contrasting with the gentle pressure of his lips. Brendan Brady was a sexy fucker, and they both knew it. Ste still wanted him, after all these years.

The car pulled up, and Ste got to his feet.

Walker was in the passenger seat, and Ste was grateful that he pretended not to stare at the young Mancunian.

Brendan stared. He sat there, the engine still running, and let his eyes trace over the other man's figure as Walker got out of the car and collected his bags. He muttered a quick hello to Ste and vanished up the stairs to find his girlfriend. Brendan just sat and looked.

The thing was...Ste knew exactly why Brendan had chosen Ste. It was the same reason Ste had never gotten over Brendan, and there was little choice in it. They were just perfect for one another. They both had crazy tempers, and both enjoyed a good fighting match every now and again; they wanted each other, but they also needed each other, and the two balanced out. They were each other's first – though of different things. They both had the same priorities.

And in the past, whenever they had clashed, it was never because of the other.

Brendan hadn't his Ste because of Ste.

The timing had simply been wrong: one was too young and the other too old and they just had to teach each other how to live and love properly. And here they were, five and a bit years later.

And after it all, Ste still loved Brendan.

* * *

**There you all are. Shout out for this chapter goes to kabr - the only review! Thank you, it means a lot to any writer to get feedback from their work! Also, guys, I want to change the description of my story because it's kind of gone off on a tangent from what the writing says: any thoughts about what to include or what not to include?**

**Reviews please! What you want to happen now, what you liked, what you didn't like, etc. Thoughts on Doug now - I'm not sure what I want to do with him - and also Eileen and Brendan's kids :) ~Meli**


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay! Lo-o-ots of Stendan in this chapter! Hopefully a few things clarified! It's getting to the end now, but if there's anything you particularly want to happen, send me a message or put it in a review and I'll have a think! Enjoy!**

* * *

Ste slipped a hand through his hair again, checking his reflection in the glass of the deli counter, pouting his lips a little. It just...it screamed try-hard, when he did that. Maybe if he just bit his own lips really hard they would puff up, get redder; be hotter. He tried it, and with a squawk of hurt he immediately released them from their painful hold and pressed his fingers to them instead. Okay, so that didn't work: he would have to come up with a new plan.

"Hello?" A voice asked, behind him, and Ste jumped again, eyes flashing to the petite blonde smiling awkwardly at him from the other side of the counter.

"Sorry, what can I do for you?" Ste flushed red. He had been caught trying to sexify himself, after all.

"I'll have the grilled pepperoni Panini, please." She asked, tapping her foot as she waited but not in a rude way, so Ste didn't mind.

"There you are," Ste finally handed over the change, which the girl accepted gratefully as she took a large bite from her food item.

"Fanks," she mumbled, making her way to the door. When she reached it, she turned around, smirking, "And, by the way, your lips are plenty pouty as it is already!" She winked at him, and Ste smiled back shyly, eyes twinkling.

Well, that was embarrassing, wasn't it?

He meant, it was always _nice_ to be complimented – she had meant that as a compliment, right? – But it wasn't like he was trying to impress anyone, was it? He just cared about his appearance, that was all. Really, he hadn't even noticed his beauty regime. Same reason he hadn't noticed that he was wearing all his best clothes, rather than the uniform that he was supposed to wear. Same reason he didn't – or did he? – bat his eyelashes discreetly, in the vague direction of, oh, I don't know, maybe the club across the road? Maybe.

Like, it wasn't 100% sure, or anything.

It wasn't like he had anyone _special_ in his life, in that thereabouts direction, was-

"Steven."

Ste stood up straight, his thoughts cut off abruptly as a grin split his face and his eyes flew to the door and – more specifically – the brawny, hairy, completely sexy Irishman entering through it.

"Brendan!" He greeted, gleefully. "Hi!"

Brendan grinned right back.

"Hi." He ducked his head, adorably, coming to stand with his hands resting on the counter.

His eyes met Ste's, and the electricity Ste could swear he felt actually hit him made his stomach clench in anticipation.

Oh, shit, he fancied this bloke so much.

"How are you?" Brendan asked softly.

Ste took a step forwards, leaning his body against the wood to hide the slightly obvious affect even Brendan's _presence_ had on him. Okay, so it had been a while: he was taken, but he wasn't _that_ taken. Actually, he wasn't technically taken in any sense of the word, but he still _felt_ taken, and that was kind of the same as being taken, wasn't it? But he still hadn't been taken.

Ste stopped his musings.

"Brendan," he admonished jokingly. "That's what, the third time today?" They both looked to the clock – the long hand and the short nearly meeting to signal the beginning of Ste's rush hour.

Brendan simply smiled, "It's good to keep in touch. So how _are_ you?"

Ste rolled his eyes – a customer entered – "Brendan. I'm fine. Now, _go_, I'm busy!" He rolled his eyes, again, at the customer, who snorted a breath of laughter in agreement to how stupid idiotic Irishmen were.

Brendan backed away, "Fine, fine!" He held up his hands in mock surrender.

Ste turned to the teenager, but as she gave her order his eyes followed the other man through the door and out into the street.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" He apologised, when he realised that she had finished talking and he was too busy watching Brendan out of sight to have paid attention.

The girl grimaced, opening her mouth in faux-politeness –

Brendan opened the door, "I'm looking forward to tonight, by the way."

Ste blushed, "Me too."

Their eyes met, Ste's heart stuttered, Brendan left.

Ste looked to the girl, "Sorry, you were saying?"

* * *

**The first time they saw one another, after**

Cheryl's phone went through to voicemail, yet again, and Ste sighed in frustration, glancing up at the impervious brick wall that blocked his view of her blue door from the deli. He understood, ok, that they would need time. He got that Joel was working to keep the club steady by himself, because Cheryl couldn't face going in; he saw Walker doing the daily shop every morning because she didn't want to – _couldn't_ – see and accept the pity in people's eyes if they recognised her. She had been back three days, and he hadn't seen her once since she had tearfully left the deli.

Or Brendan, since their eyes met over the road.

It was weird: since the Irishman's return and Ste's subsequent epiphany that he loved Brendan he had stopped thinking about it so much. It hurt less, now that he had recognised it. Maybe that was what he had been missing the whole time – right from the beginning there had always been something in the way of Ste's love for Brendan: his head, the rest of his heart. And now his heart was wholly given, and Ste felt more peaceful than he had in a long time. Peaceful enough to go home that evening and tell Kyle that they couldn't be together, and why, and not cry when his boyfriend walked out with his belongings.

Ste sighed, turning to lock up the deli, and as he did so he heard footsteps behind him.

Brendan hadn't noticed him yet – he was watching his feet pound down the stone steps and sticking iPod earphones into his ears roughly, and Ste took the moment to admire the way his neck curved into his broad shoulders, the swell of his chest, the tight muscles of his arms visible. Something low in Ste's stomach clenched.

Brendan glanced up and their eyes met.

"Hello," Ste said in amusement, subtly mocking the stunned look on his companions face.

Brendan's face curled into embarrassment, "Hi there." He replied dryly, shoving the iPod into his tracksuit pockets and taking the last few steps to stand closer to Ste.

"Finally leaving your lair?" Ste asked, and there was a trace of surly about him as he remembered that this man had made no effort to get in touch. "Why?"

Brendan shuddered, not entirely theatrically, "Chez and Walker got a bit...busy. And loud." He shuddered again. "So I decided..." he gestured to his work-out clothes, the bulge in his pocket with his music already on his running playlist.

Ste took the gesture as an invite to look him over once again, slowly. Each part of Brendan was such a vivid memory, it felt almost as if they were there and then:

His hands, pulling Ste's legs over his shoulders, rough to touch but so gentle with Ste's smaller frame, touching him like he was exquisite glass

His chest, hair poking over the top of his top, startling black against the white, coarse against Ste's softer skin and so incredibly _wide_

His lips, pulling at Ste's skin, marking it as his own

His eyes, full of lust.

Though, Ste thought smugly, that wasn't just a memory: he met the Irishman's hooded, heady gaze straight on, challengingly, and they both knew what the other was feeling.

_So?_ Brendan's though hung in between them.

Ste's answer didn't need words and in a flash they had both considered the unlocked deli door, the office in the club just across the road, the apartment only metres away.

Brendan ducked his head, blushing slightly, "Some things don't change, eh?" He met Ste's eyes again, hopefully and tentatively.

"Some things do," Ste replied, not sure what he was saying himself but knowing that some games just had to be played. He took a final step in, leant up on his tiptoes and landed a light kiss on Brendan's cheek, lips lingering there so that he could hear his love's breathing and feel with the hand placed on his chest the Irishman's heart beat faster.

* * *

"Yes?" Ste asked for the final time, stepping out of his room and opening his arms wide, biting his lip as he smiled at Amy, who looked up from her place reading a magazine on the countertop.

"Good," she nodded her approval.

Ste rolled his eyes internally. Good. Excellent, that was great; now he really knew which of the three 'good' items she had declared he should wear.

"Well, I'm not getting changed again, so..." He stropped back into his room.

He could nearly hear Amy roll her eyes behind him as he shut the door.

He loved Amy, of course, and he understood why she might not be overjoyed about all of...this. But, really, he knew what he was doing. Or maybe he didn't, and that was the whole point. And anyway, who even cared? What difference did it make?

Ste searched for the hair gel he knew he left upon his chest of drawers, opposite the mirror. He was sure he had put it there. Hastily, his hands knocked aside various bits and pieces that had taken up residency there, scrambling for what he was looking for. When the foil package fell to the floor, he picked it up absently, mind elsewhere.

"Dad, when are you going?" Leah barged in roughly, not bothering to knock, gum in her mouth and her hair tied messily in a bun atop her head. Ste smiled at that – her attempt to be adult (really, she was still the little girl he had held as a baby).

"Brendan's coming at about seven," he reminded her. "Have you seen my hair gel?"

Leah didn't answer, flopping onto the bed. "It's so embarrassing that you're dating."

Ste smirked, throwing it over his shoulder as he searched, "What, am I too old?"

"My friend Shawnee says that her mum brings a new boyfriend home every week." Leah told him matter of factly, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.

"Well," Ste turned to face her, taking a seat on the end of his own bed, "be glad I'm not her."

"I did tell her," Leah informed him, "that it wasn't like that between you and Brendan. That even when he was in Ireland he was still The One." She drew out the words the way only a nine year old could: blissfully unaware that she didn't have a clue what she was on about.

Ste smiled. The One.

"And I told her that Brendan was really nice," Leah smiled at her dad brightly. "And that he was really handsome and muscled, and that he was really rich."

"Good to know you've got your priorities in the right order," Ste commented dryly, slightly worried about what else his daughter had disclosed.

But Leah was distracted now, "What's that?" She asked, peering at what was closed in Ste's fist, resting on his thigh. "Ew! Dad!" She complained, even as Ste looked down. "Gross!" She leapt to her feet, slamming the door behind her as she rushed out, blushing wildly.

Ste laughed quietly, tucking the condom into his back pocket.

* * *

**The second time they saw one another, after**

Ste went over for a drink.

Ste went over to check on Cheryl.

Okay, so he'd had a drink quite recently, and he may have seen Cheryl and Walker get in Walker's car and drive somewhere, but he also might not have – he wasn't entirely sure, and he had some time on his hands anyway so he might as well go and check.

Brendan opened the door, leaning against the frame and taking in the sight of Ste, hip cocked to one side because he'd been standing all day and lip crushed between two teeth.

"Steven," he drawled.

"God, say it again," Ste teased dramatically – or, at least, he passed it off as a tease, and received a smile in return. He pushed lightly on Brendan's chest, backing the elder man away from the door and stepping inside. "Is Cheryl here?" He asked, glancing around as though the bubbly blonde would be there and he wouldn't be able to hear her.

"She went out with Walker," Brendan informed. "Drink?" He offered, a second later, meandering into the kitchen area.

"Ta," Ste thanked, taking a seat at the table to watch Brendan make the teas.

"So, what, you living here now?" He asked innocently, taking a sip as Brendan set his down before him.

"For now," Brendan agreed, taking the chair opposite. He elbows slid onto the table, and it seemed like the moment was dragged out forever – Ste's racing heart heard every nuance of the movement.

"How's that going?" Ste asked.

Brendan just looked at him. Really? His eyes asked the question.

Ste nodded awkwardly, "Right. Sorry."

Brendan shook his head, "Don't ever be, how many times?"

Ste clicked his teeth together, their eyes locked together as he tried to convince himself to decide whether or not to say it; either way, it would be said eventually.

"What?" Brendan decided for him, nudging Ste in the direction he wished to go in.

"Thing is...I'm going to be sorry, sometimes." Ste said. Brendan frowned, clearly not understanding, and Ste tried to shed some light: "I'm going to be sorry, and I'm going to be stroppy. We'll argue about you staying out too late and me chatting with customers too enthusiastically, and we'll both get jealous every now and then and we'll bicker sometimes over stupid little things."

Brendan had caught on, and he joined in, "And I'll make mistakes and not know how to fix it, but you'll help me work it out and I'll learn from that."

"And you'll be nervous about me meeting your kids, still, and I'll get that."

"And Amy will still be cross."

"And Cheryl will be overjoyed."

"And we'll find some place close by – near the centre of Chester, not too far from work and close to Chez and your kids."

"It'll be quite small, but still spacious, with a spare couple of rooms for the kids."

"And you'll want to make it all colourful, and I really won't care."

"And I'll make our first meal in together, and you'll be there trying to eat before I've finished and I'll bat you away, and you'll nudge me back, and then we'll end up christening the kitchen floor and the food will be ruined."

"And neither of us will be upset about it, because..." Brendan's voice trailed off.

Ste finished for him, "Because we love each other that much."

Brendan's eyes on Ste were full of something so intense that it made Ste hurt to look: silently, he rounded the wood between them and wrapped his arms around Brendan's neck. Brendan pressed his face into Ste, and his hot tears fell over the younger man's collarbone as he wept.

* * *

"What did she say?" Ste demanded, the second the door clicked shut behind him, grabbing onto Brendan's arm to slow their pace as he stared into his date's face, worry and shame carved into his own.

Brendan smoothed a finger over Ste's forehead, "Nothing undeserved."

Ste could well guess what that meant. How sneaky of Amy, to use Leah as a distraction to cross-examine Brendan.

"Seriously, what?" He asked, ducking into Brendan's car and waiting for him to clamber in the driver's seat.

Brendan sighed, "Well obviously, she warned me off the," he gestured, to demonstrate hitting.

Ste nodded, having nothing else to say on the subject. Brendan hitting him these days seemed so far removed that it was ludicrous. "And?"

"And she said that I had to treat you tonight." Ste rolled his eyes. "And" – Brendan started the car – "she told me that if I didn't love you every bit as much as you loved me that she would find me and kill me herself." For the first time, Brendan looked directly at Ste.

"Oh," Ste's voice was small.

Brendan smirked, "It won't be a problem," he promised, and he accelerated away from the kerb and Amy's watching eyes.

* * *

**The third time they saw one another, after**

Ste had woken up, terrified. It was a recurring nightmare, for him: Lucas, and the man who featured in the papers he read so avidly recently.

Usually, Ste would kick off his duvet and go to watch his little son sleep for a few minutes, assuring himself that that would never happen to his boy, that that nightmare belonged to another, far more unlucky person – his heart went out to them, but at the same time he was relieved that it wasn't him.

Tonight, Lucas was at Amy's.

Ste lay in bed, heart pounding, certain that Cillian was bending over Lucas' bed as he thought of it.

Ste hated him so viscerally it scared him a little.

He couldn't call Amy to check, obviously: they would be asleep, for one, and for two he knew that she would read it as an insinuation that she could not do her parenting role as well as he could, which he would never suggest, ever.

Instead, Ste's hand reached to the side and fumbled for the phone he knew was lying there, waiting for him.

He keyed in Brendan's number, hastily.

"Steven?" The Irishman was clearly still half asleep, his already gravelly voice weighed down with the weight of it. It was incredibly sexy, and Ste curled into a ball, glad for Brendan's smooth, reassuring masculinity.

"Hi." Ste whispered. "Come over?"

Brendan didn't need asking twice. Oh, he grumbled a little, asking why and tutting down the line, but Ste could hear him in the background, slipping out of bed and sliding his tracksuit over his legs, his top over his chest, his feet into trainers and grabbing his keys as he left.

Ste didn't have to wait long, after that: Brendan's car parked smoothly, and Ste was waiting with the door open to invite the Irishman in.

They didn't go to bed – neither of them even made a move towards it. Instead, Ste put on a film that neither watched, and Brendan made a round of coffee that went undrunk. Instead, their voices filled the crevices inside one another left void by tragedy, until light appeared and they woke, wrapped around one another shamelessly, tight under the duvet.

* * *

"Brendan!" Darren greeted in surprise, eyes flickering somewhere between Brendan's moustache and his eyes, then to Ste. "Haven't seen you about much, recently!"

Brendan placed their order: water for him, lager for Ste.

Ste got them a table, and watched as Brendan waited for their drinks to arrive. He was guiltlessly impatient, his eyes finding Ste's every few seconds, his body tilted in the direction of the man he was with.

"Cheers," he was already walking away from Darren, payment on the bar and drinks in his hands.

"Took his time didn't he?" He remarked to Ste, sliding into the booth beside him, handing him his drink.

Ste resisted pointing out that only two minutes had passed between their arrival and their current positions, taking a sip instead.

It was one of the many things unearthed between them recently: the truth about Brendan's drinking. Really, it hadn't surprised him much – Brendan always had been a heavy drinker, and he could well see that, with the right trigger, he could spill over the edge and lose control of the habit.

It still astounded him that he, _him, Steven Hay_, was a powerful enough trigger.

Losing him had made Brendan an alcoholic.

"You ok?" Brendan asked, bringing Ste out of his reverie, his voice gentle in Ste's ear.

Ste looked into Brendan's eyes, heart in this throat so painful that he couldn't contain it any longer, "I love you."

Brendan blinked in surprise at the declaration, his fingers on the nape of Ste's neck stilling a little.

What was Ste thinking? They hadn't even really gotten back together! This was their first date!

Brendan kissed him.

It wasn't a heavy kiss – even Ste found that amount of PDA distasteful – but it was _intense_. It was a thousand emotions poured into one, a million instances that should have played out. It was lips trembling on his, slight suction, fingers clenched on his jaw but not holding it.

Ste gasped as Brendan withdrew, eyes blazing.

He had forgotten, or never truly appreciated, how powerful Brendan's kiss was.

They were both aware that they were now being watched – Darren, Jack and Nancy behind the bar, several McQueen's in the corner, some uni students that Ste couldn't remember the names of with Brendan's touch still on his skin.

"I love you, too." Brendan replied, sincerely.

* * *

**There you go! Hope you liked it! This chapter goes to PatriciaJessic, who was simply incredible with her reviews, but thanks, too, to anyone else who posted one or followed or favourited! It means a lot! ~Meli**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi y'all! Here's ya go! Hope you enjoy it, as always. Went ouut on a bit of a limb in some parts, but thank you all for your help (you know who you are! ;) ) and thank you to all reviewers: shoppinglegends particularly, yours was like an essay and I loved it!**

* * *

It was surprising how easily Brendan and Ste fell into their regular old routine: both were busy men, with busy lives and both had a lot of sorting out to do. Ste would spend the day in the deli, and Brendan in the club: their lives intersecting through various texts and meals which Brendan sought out. Whichever finished up first would go to the business place of the other, waiting there until the other's growing frustrations pushed them to leave and they both went home together. After a while this visitation was ceased by Ste, due to the recurring nature of Brendan's arrivals: either jealous sulking (and Ste would swear that nine times out of ten it was just innocent banter, rather than a desire to get into the customers pants) or rude domineerance (honestly, they made one little complaint and an angry Irishman seemed to take it personally...).

They spent most evenings at Ste's, because it was more convenient than the housing Brendan still shared with Cheryl, and only emerged – hair suspiciously messy and eyes only for one another –when Ste insisted that they do so.

Eventually, the village became used to seeing them around town together – two grown men enjoying one another's company. Mitzeee stopped her delighted squealing (thankfully: it had a rather negative side affect on Brendan's mood) and Nancy stopped watching suspiciously and Tom knew exactly what order Brendan wanted on certain days on certain weathers on certain moods.

But neither Brendan nor Ste grew used to it.

"I'll never get used to this," Ste said quietly, joyously, pressing a kiss to Brendan's chest as he nestled his lithe body around the older man's panting one, clinging tight for warmth – they had somehow discarded the duvet quite vigorously, though Ste couldn't for the life of him remember it happening.

Brendan grumbled out a moan of a question, his arm coming to rest easily across Ste's back.

"Us," Ste clarified, leaning up on one elbow to tower over his boyfriend – his _boyfriend_!

Brendan smiled at him sweetly, "Us?" He played coy, snaking his arms around Ste as Ste sat up properly, straddling his thighs. "What do you like about _us_?"

Ste giggled at the pretence of innocence.

"You can't pull off naiveté." He told Brendan casually.

"You can't spell naiveté." Brendan shot back, arching his back off the bed to capture Ste's mouth in a new kiss. Ste pulled away, mouth open in faux surprise.

"What did you just say?" He asked, blinking rapidly, holding Brendan's warm body away from his own.

"I love you?" Brendan simpered. The words – said so easily now – made a rush of warmth course through Ste, tremors of delight running through him as he allowed himself for a brief second to relax into the paradise that was Brendan, and Brendan's love.

"I don't think that was it..." He caught himself half heartedly a minute later, remembering the game that he was supposed to be playing and the desired result.

But Brendan knew him too well: he had seen all of Ste's tricks, all of his moods and could read in his eyes that Ste had long forgotten his plan. Or, if he couldn't, he knew exactly how to make him.

Ste gasped as Brendan grasped his cock firmly, without preamble, his structured stance going weak as he collapsed with pleasure into Brendan, his mouth meeting the Irishman's still sweaty neck. He would swear, nothing tasted quite so good as Brendan – he could devour him forever and never be satisfied. He would make a Brendan-flavoured Panini, but he didn't want to share.

"What was it you liked about us?" Brendan asked smugly, pumping Ste slowly and lowering them backwards onto the bed.

"Oh, God!" Ste stammered, biting his lip, all sense of embarrassment at his reaction long since gone (there was really no point. The way they felt about each other was impossible to deny and, extreme as it was, they were equal in that regard).

"My name's Bren -" Brendan tried to joke.

"Shut up!" Ste gasped, and took Brendan's tongue into his own mouth, effectively silencing the Irishman. Brendan allowed it, his spare hand coming up to cup Ste's head desperately as they began once again to explore one another.

"Brendan, I'm going to..." Ste warned, yanking his head away to rest on Brendan's chest a moment later, breathing hard.

Brendan stopped his ministrations, and Ste mewed in desolation at the lack of sensation, lifting his head to peer with mournful eyes at his lover.

"Not very fair, is it, only one of us getting special attention?" Brendan teased, and, gracefully, he flipped them over so that Ste was underneath him, each hard plane of their bodies pressed against one another in such a way that fire, hot and unforgiving and close to painful, filled them.

Ste's hands were between them, roaming Brendan's chest and tugging harshly at his coarse, dark chest hair.

Brendan's hands had gone straight behind Ste, reaching for his end goal with a hurried impatience that, when he reached it, made Ste jerk slightly away.

"Rushed, aren't we?" Ste said breathlessly, his mouth moving to Brendan's shoulder as Brendan pulled his hips from the bed to make things easier. Roughly, Ste shoved a pillow under the small of his back. "Is someone a little needy?"

"Shut up!" Brendan mimicked Ste's earlier wording, slipping a finger inside the gasping boy's hole.

Ste arched into him: body and soul. His thin stomach pressed into Brendan's, their groins flush against one another; he rotated his hips in that way he knew Brendan liked, and the Irishman's steady hold of himself above his companion staggered slightly at the delicious friction between their cocks.

"God, Steven!" Brendan gasped, and then he was kissing Ste again so hard that Ste knew his lips would be bruised, his face raw from 'tache rash.

Another finger slipped inside Ste's entrance, widening him ever more in preparation and, greedy, Ste reached a flushed arm behind himself to speed the process.

Brendan's ministrations stopped suddenly, his face pulling back to stare at Ste in amazement as he felt the intrusion. Inside of Ste's body, one of Ste's fingers curled around his lover's: it was the most sensual, the most erotic, thing that Brendan had ever felt in his life and he felt his body jerk suddenly as he became closer to coming.

"Jesus, Steven." He whispered, and Ste smiled up at him, all pouty eyes, dilated pupils and crazy eyelashes. He was the most beautiful thing Brendan had ever seen, and his heart swelled with emotion looking down at him. Slowly, he leant down, pressing a tiny, soft little kiss to Ste's puckered lips.

He withdrew his fingers and, understanding, Ste did too.

Their hands entwined by their sides.

Brendan lined himself up and took a calming breath; Ste's fingers caught his jaw and, in surprise, his floated shut eyes flipped open to look questioningly at the boy below him.

"I love you," Ste said.

"I love you, too." Brendan whispered, and pushed in.

Ste's head lolled back and they groaned simultaneously and the warmth and the intimacy and the sheer pleasure of each other's bodies. If coherent at that moment, both would have sworn down that the other had some sort of power.

"I love you!" Ste gasped again, as Brendan withdrew and slammed back into his partner. It became a sort of mantra, pushed out of him desperately by Brendan's pounding: "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIlov eyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou Iloveyou..." Ste's jaw trembled from the exertion, his fingers feebly bunching the sheets with all the strength he could muster. Brendan's eyes fluttered madly – now a flash of blue, now skin, now rolling back. Ste craned up to kiss him, and the Irishman succumbed needily, begging entrance to Ste's mouth as well as his heart and body.

When they came, Brendan's deft fingers between them to aid Ste's timing; it was with loud cries and jerking, senseless limbs.

"Fuck." Brendan whispered, collapsing atop Ste.

And Ste could only agree.

* * *

"Well, I wonder where you've been," Cheryl rolled her eyes, her body leant against the door to the deli, the nearly midday sun beaming down upon the duo.

Ste blushed, "What do you mean?"

"Brendan hasn't turned up for work, yet, either." Cheryl said dryly.

Ste's mind flashed back to that morning – waking up to Brendan's body, getting dressed and then undressed again, his ripped shirt, the hasty shower, the much lengthier second shower, breakfast (they did both deserve it, after that), the kiss goodbye, the quick sex because the kiss goodbye had got them in the mood – and he blushed harder. "Yeah, well, he probably wanted a lie in."

He hadn't had much rest.

"He doesn't work for you, anyway," he pointed out to her, glancing to the club where once upon a time – a lifetime ago – he himself had stocked the bar.

"He just turns up and bosses people around." Cheryl stifled her laughter, and Ste smiled at the gentle love in her expression. He had always known it wasn't right: they were brother and sister, and they belonged calling each other that.

Ste finally unlocked the door, allowing both him and his friend into the cool, dark interior of one of his favourite places in the world. It never ceased to amaze Ste, the understanding that all this was _his_; he had _made _this; he had _built_ this. The deli stood for Ste, and the deli was thriving, and nothing – well, nearly nothing – made Ste happier.

"So, what's up?" Ste threw over his shoulder to the blonde, shoving the bag he had slung over his shoulder with his things in under the countertop and idling into the kitchen, flicking the lights on as he went.

Cheryl made a vague noise in the back of her throat, suddenly engrossed in some coffee beans on display at the side.

Ste rolled his eyes, "Cheryl, you're awful at pretending." He crossed through the door and steered her to the sofas, grateful that the blinds were still closed. "So what is it really?"

Cheryl shrugged again, but peered up at him meekly through her eyelashes, "Don't get angry, ok?" She begged, her brilliant pink and glittery nails digging slightly into his arm through his jacket.

Ste bit his lip, "Fine, whatever."

Cheryl chattered her teeth together; the hesitant eye contact was lost for a moment, but returned quickly, "Look. It's about Brendan..."

She tensed, and Ste had to smile, "What about him?"

Blinking in surprise, "You're not mad? A few years ago if I'd said that -"

"A few years ago I was an entirely different person." Ste pointed out.

Cheryl nodded enthusiastically, "I know that! And I know he's changed, too. And I trust him, honestly I do. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't check. AndalsoAmyphonedandaskedmeto ."

Ste burst out laughing: how like Amy, to worry about him, to spy on him, to love him intensely.

"It's serious!" Cheryl insisted, her cheeks stained pink in embarrassment.

"Oh, Chez!" Ste slipped his hand onto her shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. "Don't worry, me and Bren...we're so much better than ok. We're..." Ste tried to find words that summed up Brendan and him. Intense. Passionate. Incredible. Mind blowing. They spoke for themselves; but there was the softer under layer, as well. The side to Brendan that was the way he would cuddle into Ste's warmth at night. The side that was worrying about his kids, obsession with Coronation Street (a feat for which Ste took full credit) and a lingering fear that Ste did his best to soothe, in the safety of dark. "We're us." He said, because it was the truest thing he could think of, "And when we're us nothing could ever overcome us."

Cheryl smiled daintily, "I love you, Steven Hay." She kissed him on the cheek, getting to her feet and heading for the door, evidently satisfied with the answer.

* * *

Ste watched her go, and as he leant against the glass panes of the door he saw her intercept her brother on his way to work, his hair perfectly gelled to hide that morning, the purple beneath his eyes giving him away. He smiled as he watched them dance: Brendan surly and tired, Cheryl ecstatic. As he looked, Cheryl seized Brendan's wrists, twirling him around using her body weight, and Brendan tripped over his own foot, catching himself before he hit the ground and glancing around furtively to check no one had seen. His eyes met Ste's through the window, and they smiled to the pounding of their hearts.

Brendan turned away first, checking back when he reached the foot of the wrought iron staircase and smirking when he saw Ste still watching. Inside the deli, by himself, Ste laughed at his boyfriend.

Brendan flung open the door to Ste's flat, shocking the space with noise and cracking the wall ever so slightly. For God's sake, this was bloody ridiculous!

"Bloody hell." He muttered angrily, throwing himself onto the lumpy old sofa, landing on a dvd and tossing it to one side carelessly.

It was all stupid work's fault. Why couldn't everything just run seamlessly; smooth with or without him to manage over every single little fucking detail? But no: if he was in England, the businesses in Dublin took a blow somehow or other and if he was in Dublin – the rare few times he had returned in the past couple of months – then Chez Chez would fall apart. It. Was. Fucking. Ridiculous.

His phone, pressing uncomfortably into his thigh, rang shrilly, and with shaking, angry fingers he located it and sent it spinning over the telly, where it smashed on the already damaged wall; the pieces fell silently onto the carpet, hidden behind the screen.

"Eh, up!" Ste said, entering at that moment, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He stood, the door still ajar and the shopping forgotten by his feet, with his hands on his hips, raising a dark eyebrow in what Brendan knew he considered a stern way (it was hot).

Brendan ignored him, throwing a filthy glance to the wall like it was all its fault he was now in trouble.

"Brendan!" Ste growled, marching over and smacking his boyfriend on the arm, "Answer me!"

"What the hell?" Brendan leapt to his feet, standing taller that Ste by several inches but feeling much higher up. "What was that for?"

It hadn't hurt, of course. A slight sting just in case Brendan had forgotten he was there, but not painful in the slightest; they both knew it.

"Grow up!" Ste rolled his eyes, turning away, but Brendan had had enough.

"No, you know what, I'm leaving!" He declared, sidestepping Ste.

"Oh for God's sake!" Ste cried, "Why are you such a child! Just tell me what the matter is!"

Brendan spun around to face him, "You want to know? Well, one of my businesses in Dublin is falling apart, and I keep spending all my time here and I never see my children and I actually have a life outside of you, you know!"

"So you're blaming _me_ because business is shit?" Ste shouted back, inches away from Brendan's own heaving chest.

"Yes! Here I am spending all my time with you when there are more important things to be doing!"

"Oh, well I'm freaking sorry! Cos you know, all those times I just _begged_ you not to go into work!" There were none.

"Oh, you _know_ it's not like that! But you give me those fucking cow eyes and how can I stay away? You tell me that you love spending time with me, that you miss me, that you wish I would be around at the weekends and how the fuck am I meant to say no? Because, in case you hadn't forgotten, I'm the screw up in this relationship, aren't I? I'm the wanker who still has to prove himself?"

"Shut up!" Ste bellowed, cutting in, fire racing through him. "How dare you! Blaming me because you don't have the balls to tell me how you really feel."

Brendan's mouth was open and ready to shout back whatever hurtful thing he could think of, but Ste's palm was suddenly up and Ste was backing away towards the door.

"You know what, Brendan?" Ste's eyes shone slightly, "If I was that much of a nuisance I wish you'd told me earlier." And he left, the door swinging sadly shut behind him.

Leaving Brendan wishing he could just say sorry.

* * *

"What did you do?" Walker asked, as Brendan swung open the door quickly, mouth opened to apologise and usher Ste back in. He didn't miss the disappointment in the Irishman's gaze, and, with little difficulty, discerned who Brendan would rather see.

Brendan grunted, and let the ex-cop in.

"Nice crack," Walker deadpanned, surveying the ruined wall with an unimpressed expression.

"Fuck off," Brendan muttered, sincerely meaning every syllable. He wanted nothing more than for Walker to leave so he could start on the whiskey – but as he couldn't do one, he might as well not get the other.

"Ste went round to see Cheryl," Walker began, sinking onto the couch while Brendan leant on the unscathed wall.

Brendan took in Walker's expectant expression and couldn't help the question: "Is he ok?"

If Walker was surprised by the concern, then he didn't show it. He simply cocked his head at his companion, surveying him slowly, "He's fine. Angry and upset, but physically fine."

Relieved, Brendan nodded, finally taking the other chair in the room, "So why are you here?"

Walker shrugged, "Oh, you know. You helped kill my brother, I tried to kill you and your loved ones, I'm sleeping with your sister and your boyfriend is in my house ranting. Where else would I be?"

Brendan smiled at Walker's sardonic tone, despite his upset, "Ah, of course."

"How could you have missed it?" Walker agreed.

They sat in only slightly strained silence for a few seconds.

"Do you want a coffee?" Brendan asked finally, reluctantly remembering his duties as a host.

Walker smirked, "No. But, Brendan..."

Brendan caught the odd tone and took a second look at his old nemesis: Walker's eyes were as nervous as the fingers he was wringing, and as Brendan watched he took a deep glance in Brendan's direction.

Walker hadn't seriously come here to...

"Look, Walker, what happened between us -"

"Oh! God, no!" Walker cottoned on quickly, "I'm not here for...that," – Brendan found it strangely endearing that he blushed – "I'm here to tell you I'm going to propose to Cheryl!"

The words, rushing out in explanation when they had been to hard to say before, hung dangerously in the air.

"What?" Brendan choked out finally, eyebrows near invisible beside his hair line.

Walker looked equally shocked, "Well..."

But Brendan's mind had kicked into overdrive: he was remembering his own ruined marriage, Eileen's seemingly constant tears, the moments of happiness marred by secrets and revulsion, the never ending bitter cycle, the rush of escape and the pain of loss. He couldn't let that happen to Cheryl; he couldn't let some bastard do to her what he'd done to Eileen.

"Why?" Brendan demanded, eyes flashing black.

Walker shrugged helplessly, "I love her..." He offered meekly, cowed by the fervour of the Irishman.

"And you think you'll love her forever?" Brendan bit out scornfully, enraged at this idiot who thought he was good enough for sweet, bubbly, kind Cheryl.

Walker just nodded.

"And you really think she'll love _you_ forever?" Brendan eyed Walker derisively, snorting away the memory of his body.

"I hope so," Walker replied shortly, getting to his feet, "And I'm not asking your permission. I love her, and I want to be with her forever and, if she agrees, I will do just that." He stalked towards the door.

Turning around before he left: "I was married once before, too, Brendan. I know better than most that while you might mean it at the time 'I do' can change. And I'm not saying that one day it might not happen...but you've got no brothers left to kill.." He left the room, as quietly as Ste had earlier, and yet again, Brendan was left feeling empty.

* * *

The phone next to his ear spluttered into life – he should have bought a new one for the flat months ago – and Brendan hefted it to his ear, wearily. Steven wouldn't ring the house phone, he knew; neither would Cheryl.

"Hello?" He braced himself for a salesman, a cold caller.

"Let us iiiiiiiin!" Two voices chorused, giddy and giggling and, to Brendan's amazement he didn't just hear it through the wires: they were outside.

Lurching to his feet, Brendan's hand was on the handle and opening the door before he thought about it.

On the other side, Declan and Paddy beamed at him before, simultaneously, throwing themselves into his waiting arms.

"Ohmygodjesusmaryandjoseph!" Brendan muttered into the hollow where his sons' shoulders met, breathing in the scent of them deeply, overcome with the sweet loss of missing them. Too soon, like the teenagers they were, they wriggled from his grasp, smoothing their clothes and checking that no one had seen them. Brendan smiled so hard his jaw hurt.

"Surprise!" Paddy giggled, as Declan hefted the case into his arms and lead the way into the cold little flat.

"What are you doing here?" Brendan asked, still in shock, still grinning like an idiot.

Declan – definitely taller than Brendan by now – put on the kettle and leant against the counter with the familiarity of someone who had been there before (and Brendan could vividly recall the fear of losing his child – he was still angry at Ste for that).

"Ste called, didn't he tell you?" The elder child asked innocently. "A few days ago," he tacked on the end.

Of course Ste had called, Brendan realised with a sinking, regretful feeling aching in his chest. Of course Ste had realised Brendan missed his kids, and so arranged this incredible surprise; because that was who Ste was. Ste was the one that fixed things. His words from that morning bounced back to him, rattling around his head sharply and miserably.

"Where is he?" Paddy bounded into the room, giddy with excitement. The youngest Brady was a big fan of Ste, and his youthful eyes searched for his friend eagerly.

"At work," the lie slipped out painfully. "He didn't tell me he'd called you, sneaky bastard."

Paddy's little face lit up with the naughty joy of hearing his father swear, casting the memory to the centre of his mind to be called up at a later date, ready for blackmail.

"When will he be back?" Paddy asked.

"I'm here now!" Ste greeted from behind them, and all three whirled around, three hands leaping to their chests as they jumped. Ste laughed at the sight of them, opening his arms to welcome the thirteen year old who flung his arms around his kind-of-step-dad's neck.

"Ste!" Paddy cried.

"Paddy!" Ste teased back, releasing the younger boy and hugging Declan in a much cooler, manlier, grown up way. Brendan smirked at the faux-casual expression on his son's face.

"Alright, Ste?" Declan asked, sniffing a little haughtily, eyes giving away his delight, still.

"Not bad, bro," Ste put on a rougher accent – an incredible feat, really.

His eyes turned hesitantly to Brendan as the man's rich laughter filled the small space.

_I'm sorry_, Brendan's eyes said.

_Thank you_.

_I love you._

Ste smiled.

* * *

Brendan slipped into their joint bedroom quietly, folding himself onto the foot of the bed contentedly.

"How are they?" Ste asked quietly, his legs hugged to his chest beneath the covers and his eyes light as he looked at the older man.

"Paddy was out like a light, always did sleep like that," Brendan chuckled. "And Declan's pretending to be asleep but texting his girlfriend under the duvet."

Ste laughed, and Brendan cuddled into his side.

"Thank you, Steven." He told the younger man, holding his gaze so that Ste knew exactly how grateful he was.

Ste shook of the gratitude with a modest movement of his head, tilting in to kiss Brendan on the lips gently.

"No," Brendan ceased the movement, gentle fingertips on each side of Ste's face. "Really. Thank you so much. And..." his voice trailed off guiltily. "Look, I should have just explained to you about work. Civilly. And I should talk to you more about my family, and my feelings and all that. And I shouldn't have, God, I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. I'm so sorry."

Ste's hand found Brendan's on Ste's cheek, enclosing it in softness.

"I forgive you."

Brendan opened his mouth to say something, but it was Ste's turn and he shushed his boyfriend lightly.

"I've known you missed your boys a while. How could you not? I get that: my kids aren't always around and when they're not..." He shrugged helplessly, but Brendan didn't need words to explain the sad little hole inside their chest. "Brendan, you've come so far. Back at the beginning, I never thought I would get this and the fact that you've done all this – that you've changed so much – blows my mind. You are...so utterly perfect for me. I love you."

* * *

**Okay, so I've decided to finish up with a prologue section and I want your views on what to do with it: should it by 5 years, 10 years, 50? Should it be the release of Pa Brady, a cute and fluffy Christmas selection? Do we want it in 1st person or 3rd and should it focus on Ste, Brendan, of them as a couple? Really - gimme all your sneaky little dreams about where you see them going and I'll try to fulfil! Thank you so much to everyone whose reviewed, favourited, messaged me, followed! It is such an incentive to produce good work! **

**Reviews are great, I love them, I love the reviewers; its just lovely :) ~Meli**


	14. Chapter 14

**Okay, so this is it! The final chapter! It's been a while, and I've had some trouble deciding exactly what to put in this but I hope that I've done the story, the characters, and their amazingness justice! It might not be the most in character they've ever been, but I think it kind of fits. I hope so, anyway - really, my head's just filled with the perfection that was #StendaninDublin, am I right? Anyway, read, enjoy (crossed fingers) and please review!**

* * *

**Prologue: Two years later**

"Brendan," a voice crooned above him, tempting him out of that warm, safe place of sleep and causing him to groan and burrow further into the warmth of the duvet. He pressed his face into his pillow, and pretended he couldn't hear Steven.

"Rise and shine," Ste said, his breath – minty, he had already been up a few hours – fanned across Brendan's face. "It's a big day today, we can't be late!"

Brendan mumbled something incoherently into the material of his headrest, and he could hear Ste rolling his eyes above him. There was a dip in the bed as Ste's weight joined him – Brendan smiled his victory – and then a rustling of the covers and then Brendan gasped as Ste's hand gripped his morning boner firmly. His eyes flew open: Ste lounged above him, eyes full of laughter and teeth bared into a teasing little grin that had Brendan's back arching desperately off the bed and his hands reaching for the lithe body.

Ste ducked out of the way, vanishing into the doorway and blowing a kiss, "Good morning."

The boy left, leaving Brendan slumped back and gasping and finishing the job himself, alone in their bed.

Later – having showered and dressed – Brendan stalked into the tiny kitchen, throwing little glares to his lover just to assure the lad that he wasn't over the bullying that morning; Ste smirked, rose from the table (he was still naked, and Brendan would swear that his heart stopped) and handed Brendan the fry up that he had prepared earlier, kept warm in their rickety microwave.

Brendan tucked it.

"Forgiven?" Ste laughed, wiping ketchup from the elder man's chin. Brendan pouted at him, but his lips curved up moments after and his eyes were full of that hidden emotion that made Ste clench his toes in wonder: it said all.

"Well we've got a lot to do, so you have to hurry up!" Ste chided gently.

Brendan sighed, "I'm sure she wouldn't care that much-"

"If you missed her wedding?" Ste cut in, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. No matter what, there was no excuse and they both knew it.

"I can think of things I'd rather do..." Brendan tried to distract Ste, pulling him into his lap (nakednakednakednakednaked) and planting a light kiss on his collarbone.

"Brush your teeth." Ste insisted, shuffling them along, "And then wash up while I get dressed."

For the second time, Brendan was left watching the younger man leave, shaking his head as the shower started up.

"I thought we fixed the dish washer?" Brendan called through as Ste exited, heading – naked – into the bedroom to grab his suit hanging on the back of the door.

"You broke it last week, remember? When we came back from the pub?" Ste shouted in his direction.

Brendan thought back, and as the memory came back to him his moustache twitched into a smile as he smirked at the item. "As I remember, it was _your_ back that jolted it..." He pointed out.

"And who was slamming me around?" Ste asked, coming through and offering his neck to Brendan to tie the tie.

Brendan did so, "And who was looking so fucking appetising?"

"I'm not a piece of meat?" Ste whispered, as Brendan kissed him – hungrily.

"Are you sure?" Brendan growled back, clutching the thin frame to his own and nibbling lovingly on Ste's ridiculously pouty expression.

"Fucking positive." Ste insisted, but his hands found the back of Brendan's head and held him there anyway.

"Because, Steven, you're good enough to eat." Brendan promised, moving to Ste's neck.

Ste groaned, tilting his head back to give more room and going weak at the knees at Brendan's expert ministrations, "You want to be careful, you."

At this – much to Ste's chagrin (he whimpered, and then covered it with a cough to stop Brendan's ego inflating further) – Brendan pulled away and gazed down, perplexed, "What?"

"Firstly," Ste kissed him lightly, "Cannibalism's illegal." Brendan snorted. "And secondly, my boyfriend's the jealous type."

Brendan's eyes crinkled in the corners, "Can you blame him?"

"I couldn't blame him for anything, I've tried," Ste murmured, trailing fingers down Brendan's newly shaved cheeks and holding his gaze. "I guess I love his ugly mug too much," he teased, breaking the spell of Brendan's eyes with a nervous laugh.

It was ridiculous – stupid, moronic – that the man still had this effect on him.

Brendan swallowed, "We should get going." He said quietly, and Ste nodded gratefully.

They got in their – _Brendan's_ – car, and Brendan drove them out of their drive.

* * *

The two men in the car surveyed the building apathetically.

"Not very nice." Brendan muttered.

"Tacky." Ste agreed.

"The fairy lights should be white." Brendan pointed out.

"And the roses clash."

"Why is there that sign?"

"Who even planned this?"

"Fucking ridiculous."

"Are they all blind?"

"Should have had a smaller church."

"Yeah, a nice rustic, traditional one."

"I'm thinking lots of trees."

"Stone?"

"Yeah, that dark one."

"Yeah."

Ste caught Brendan's eye, and too late they realised that they were, in fact, planning a wedding. This was the kind of thing that was ridiculous because – and it was impossible to think otherwise – Brendan was never going to marry Ste.

And, honest to God, Ste was alright with that.

Honest.

Because Brendan had come so damn far, and he was so much more than Ste needed. It wasn't that he was holding back, it was that they had no need for officiality.

"I'm going to find Chez." Brendan said gruffly, letting himself out of the car and waiting for Ste to do the same to lock it.

"Not mingling?" Ste reminded, but not seriously.

"I hate nearly every single person in that room," Brendan smiled softly.

"And the rest you've slept with," Ste laughed, reaching up to snatch a quick kiss before bobbing away. "I'll do the duties, then. You make sure that she's ok."

Brendan nodded, walked silently up to the overly decorated door and moved slickly down a side corridor as Ste entered the snake's nest of Irish relatives.

* * *

"Chez?" He asked, and entered without knocking.

There was a shriek, a flailing of arms, a brief topple; Brendan lurched forwards and caught his half dressed sister, rolling his eyes at her eccentricity and righting her.

"What are you doing?" He gestured to her lack of a wedding dress, and from the wide eyed bafflement upon her shining face he was sure she had completely forgotten she'd taken it off.

"I..." Cheryl trailed off, and gestured quickly to the cake left on the side, guiltily, "I'm scared," she admitted.

Brendan scooped up the offending desert, dumping it into the bin, ignoring squealing protestations; he smoothed out her garment tenderly (he'd bloody paid for it, after all, in the absence of a father); he hugged her tight.

"How do you know if they're the one?" Cheryl whispered into his collar.

Brendan pulled away, "Put your dress on, Chez." He handed it to her, and sat on the bed. "How do you know?" He mused, aware that she was clinging onto his every word. "I don't know what you want me to say: it's not like Eileen's and mine's marriage was the best, is it?"

"It may actually have been the worst." Cheryl giggled, shrugging into the confection of white. "But why did you marry her?" She asked a moment later.

Brendan screwed up his eyes, "I was stupid."

Cheryl didn't reply, and when he looked to her he saw a scared blankness; and he knew that he had caused it. Sighing – fighting his self preservation instincts – he stepped through his walls and cast his mind back, "I guess...I guess I loved her."

Cheryl's eyes, the same as his own, flickered in his direction.

"Oh, not like I love Steven. But I still loved her. She made me smile, and I loved that I could protect her; she was funny, and clever, and exactly the girl I should have picked. She was unavailable to the rest of my mates – the one everyone wanted – and for once not wanting to have sex with her worked in my favour. For a while." Brendan smiled self deprecatingly, snapping out of his haze and finding Cheryl.

She stared back, "You were stupid." She agreed.

Brendan smiled, and shrugged, "I was young."

Cheryl nodded, "I loved being bridesmaid."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself." Brendan muttered sarcastically, winding a spare program through his fingers in agitation. Strangely enough, memories of his wedding day weren't his favourite.

The siblings lapsed into silence for a minute as Cheryl fixed her dress, pulling at her hair a little, dabbing a little blush onto her pale cheeks. She stared at herself in the full length mirror, and Brendan rose to stand behind her, hands on her waist.

"Tell me about you and Ste," Cheryl whispered, her usually bubbly voice trembling.

Brendan swallowed, thought of his sister's happiness, "Steven is...annoying, most of the time. He whinges, and doesn't like the same things as me, and prefers to dress like a chav than anything decent. He doesn't understand cars, but likes driving fast. He makes me want to bang my head against the wall, but sometimes...he'll curl into my side and I know I would do absolutely anything to be in that moment right there, with him. He'll smile I'll want to freeze forever to keep him happy. He'll go away for a cooking course and I'll physically ache – and I'll never get used to it not just being a physical thing, but...my heart."

Brendan swallowed, turning to the window, "Of course, he's fitter than fuck, and that helps. Even when I'm angry with him I appreciate those bloody eyelashes. And..."

Brendan had found the words to explain, and he turned to his sister triumphantly.

Ste stood by Cheryl's side, eyes wide and full of the same tears hers held; they had identical, soft little smiles – Brendan's heart lurched, hard enough to hurt, and all the muscles in his stomach tightened reflexively.

"How do you know if they're the one?" His words were directed at Cheryl, but he could not for the life tear his eyes from Ste. "They're the one if they're woven so deeply inside of you that even when you don't want them there you know exactly where they are, and if you don't know exactly where they are you'd do anything to find out."

Cheryl's breath came out in a sobbing heave, eyes choked with emotion – bright like stars – but empty of doubt. She beamed, but Brendan didn't see her.

There was a tap on the door, Annalise appeared nervously.

"It's time."

Brendan took Cheryl's arm dutifully, kissed her cheek.

"Ready?"

* * *

"I am...the luckiest bastard in the world." Walker laughed shakily. Half the room tittered at his honest confusion, the other shook their heads in disapproval; he raised his hands in supplication, "Sorry, sorry, my head's all over the place." He smiled, and won them over.

At the other side of the table, Brendan rolled his eyes to Ste, who smirked without ripping his eyes from the speech maker.

Walker shook his head once more, sending his neatly prepared hair into its usual disarray, and began his speech in earnest.

"I'll keep it brief. I thought I had it sussed: this whole love, life, thing. I thought I could do every single day for the rest of my life, and I probably could have. I could have continued as normal, and never once realised that I was living in gray. And then Cheryl flung herself into my life, and everything was coloured, and fast, and utterly scary; and Cheryl was the only thing - the perfect thing – in it that mattered. She changed literally every single thing about me, and I will adore her for it forever because this man she's made me? He's a better person." He turned to Cheryl. "Cheryl, love, you make me a good man. And...I love you so much. And I hope that I never, ever let you down because you are the best thing that's ever happened to me and it would kill me to hurt you. Also, your brother scares the hell out of me and I think he'd probably eat me."

They all laughed, and Walker lifted his glass to Brendan jokingly.

"I would." Brendan warned.

Turning back to Cheryl: "I love you; I love you so damn much," he faced the crowds again, grinning broadly, "To my beautiful wife, who is my everything; to Cheryl!"

"To Cheryl!" They chimed in unison, taking a sip.

Cheryl dragged her husband down, landing a smacking kiss on his eager lips. They watched, smiling at the enthusiastic newly-weds.

Time stretched on, and they didn't part; a few old ladies (not the Irish clan, they were loving the display) muttered angrily; Ste stared at his plate.

"Dance!" Brendan growled gruffly, breaking the tension, drawing attention from the couple and gesturing desperately to the band, who struck up their tune with admirable gusto.

"Dance!" The call crossed the room in a wave, becoming loud enough to catch Walker's bashful attention. He blushed, grinning still, and offered his hand to his beautiful bride, leading her to the centre of the chairs and pulling her into his arms gently.

"Thanks!" Ste mouthed to his boyfriend, who rolled his eyes affectionately.

"Thanks!" A pretty blonde girl drifted to their table, eyes shyly cast down and lips casually pouting. Her slender fingers found Brendan's shoulder softly, and her heavily made up eyes raised to meet his as he turned to look at her: they locked on, she smiled and leant into him.

"I'm Sarah," she introduced herself.

Ste sat up straighter, but didn't glare at the offending girl. Oh, sure, she was perving all over his property: but really, the poor lass would think over this moment – the moment she made her move – for days, and be embarrassed about it every time. And, anyway, it was Ste that got to take him home tonight.

"Brendan," Brendan replied, shaking her proffered hand. Ste could hear the amusement in his voice, even if she only heard the sexy growling gravel over honey tones.

"Brendan Brady? I'm sure Maggie's mentioned you at some point," she simpered, looking as though she was genuinely trying to remember where she had heart (Ste suddenly thought that it might be from the papers, two years ago, and bit his lip nervously).

"Maggie?" The girl addressed Cheryl's mother boldly, drawing her from her conversation.

Maggie looked to them in irritation, took in the hand on the nape of Brendan's neck, Brendan's smirk and Ste's abashed shake of the head; she pursed her lips at her step-son, "He's the gay one, dear." She told her brusquely.

There was a moment of awkwardness – a hesitant beat between understanding Maggie's words, remembering, and withdrawing her fingers from Brendan's skin.

"Oh." She stuttered.

Brendan took pity – perhaps it was the church setting calling on his morals, more likely he was in a good mood to see his sister so happy – "This is Steven." He gestured to Ste, who waved. She shook her palm back at him.

"I just remembered I have to..." her voice trailed off as she backed away, and as she did so Brendan and Ste noticed for the first time that more than one pair of eyes were on the awkward trio.

"Shall we give the buggers something to talk about?" Brendan asked, wiping his moustache with his napkin.

Ste took his fingers – a jolt of electricity – and they took their own corner of the dance floor.

* * *

"It wasn't that bad," Brendan allowed, falling through the door with Ste wrapped in his arms.

"This is how we broke the dish-washer," Ste warned, but nestled closer, reaching for Brendan's shirt and hurriedly undoing his tie.

Brendan's teeth bit his earlobe gently, his arms a cage when Ste tried to turn them around to lead them to a safer location, "I _enjoyed_ breaking the dish-washer." He growled.

Ste laughed breathlessly, "I remember."

A hot flash of sticky skin, of cries swallowed by the night, of teeth and nails and desperation and _finally_; he remembered that particular encounter.

He was going to say something else about Cheryl – or perhaps he wasn't, perhaps he was just going to take his boyfriend then and there on the floor – but something caught his attention and he stiffened in Brendan's arms.

"What's that smell?" He asked, trying to turn around.

Brendan held him in place, and when Ste looked at him questioningly he looked nervous.

"What is it?" Ste asked quietly, and Brendan released him to see for himself.

Ste stifled a gasp.

Several candles littered the surfaces; fairy-lights draped the walls and ceiling, glittering orbs floating delicately in the air as if by magic; Ste stepped, amazed, into the world of dreams and beauty that Brendan had created in their little living room. In the heart of the magic – where something swelled inside of Ste that was painfully like peace and utterly awestruck – Ste stopped. Light flickered around him, and when Brendan's hands found his waist they sank into the love there, as much a part of Ste's incredulity as anything else.

"What _is_ this?" Ste asked, rocking back into Brendan because he was scared to keep his weight on his own two feet.

Brendan swallowed audibly, rotated Ste.

"Steven," he looked to their interlinked fingers, "the thing is...I can't live without you. Everything you heard today, when I was talking to Chez, I meant it and so much more. I meant that you are my whole world and no sucker like Walker could ever understand what that is."

Ste snorted.

"Every day when I wake up it is like a miracle, and I thank every single lucky star I can think of. You are every shooting star that blazed across my path, every coin dropped into a wishing well, every dandelion blown into the wind." Brendan smiled, "And I really can't believe I'm saying this."

"_I _really can't believe you're saying this!" Ste agreed, through the tears choking him.

Fingers brushed the water from his cheeks, "I love you, Steven Hay, that's what I'm trying to say. I love you and I will never stop."

Brendan's lips bent down to Ste's, brushing unintentionally, opening slightly and they just held there for a moment, feeling the breath rushing from deep down into one another, heartbeats learning to synchronise, eyelashes fluttering into a mixture.

"Marry me?" Brendan whispered, and the words were the tipping point to press his lips to Ste's.

"Yes." Ste replied, clutching his love to him.

* * *

**The end!**

**I really hope you liked it: if you did or if you didn't, leave a review and tell me why!**


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